The Woodworker and his Work
The woodworker is linked to his work in a strong way.
It is his idea, his notion rendered to life with his hands. His sweat soaks into the wood, as does the oil of his hands until it is hard to say were the wood leaves off and the woodworker begins. His hand knows the smooth curve of the wood at its edges, his tongue knows the bitter tang of the dust and this nose the pungent aroma of the wood. His ears know the whine of the drill motor and the snarl of the tablesaw.
When it is done and glowing softly in the afternoon sunlight through the window, the woodworker sees the flaws first. The gap in the trim that misses by a thirty second of an inch at the corner, the dent in the edge where he hit the doorway moving it into the room, or the slightly out of square door. Noone else sees it, but he cannot look without regretting that he wasn't more careful and took a little more care.
He remembers the time when he made it. How he worried about his son, or his wife, or his job. Or how "A Prairie Home Companion" was on the radio as he glued up the breadboard edge on a rainy day when the heavy rain drops tapped random beats on the roof, and the smell of wet earth filled the shop.
In the end, he packs his home with memories that live on long after the woodworker is gone, and that's okay. It's part of the bargain. In a way, it's a gift to the future, to someone yet unborn who will know good work and who will polish it occasionally.
The woodworker is linked to his work in a strong way.
It is his idea, his notion rendered to life with his hands. His sweat soaks into the wood, as does the oil of his hands until it is hard to say were the wood leaves off and the woodworker begins. His hand knows the smooth curve of the wood at its edges, his tongue knows the bitter tang of the dust and this nose the pungent aroma of the wood. His ears know the whine of the drill motor and the snarl of the tablesaw.
When it is done and glowing softly in the afternoon sunlight through the window, the woodworker sees the flaws first. The gap in the trim that misses by a thirty second of an inch at the corner, the dent in the edge where he hit the doorway moving it into the room, or the slightly out of square door. Noone else sees it, but he cannot look without regretting that he wasn't more careful and took a little more care.
He remembers the time when he made it. How he worried about his son, or his wife, or his job. Or how "A Prairie Home Companion" was on the radio as he glued up the breadboard edge on a rainy day when the heavy rain drops tapped random beats on the roof, and the smell of wet earth filled the shop.
In the end, he packs his home with memories that live on long after the woodworker is gone, and that's okay. It's part of the bargain. In a way, it's a gift to the future, to someone yet unborn who will know good work and who will polish it occasionally.
The woodworker is linked to his work in a strong way.
posted by Greg the woodworker | 8:18 AM
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