Making Memories in the Workshop

 Making Memories in the Workshop

By Bobby Neal Winters

My youngest grandson brought me an old piece of wood from a picket fence yesterday and asked me to make him a sword.  (He asked me to make him a Minecraft sword, and I am not sure what that is, but I didn’t let on.)

As it was from a picket fence, it already had a point on one end, so there was not much work to be done there.  It had, however, been in someone’s fence for a long time. (I didn’t ask its provenance; sometimes 5-year-olds are a little hazy on the rules, and grandpas don’t necessarily ask a lot of questions.) 

The wood was old. It was beginning to flake off in places. I said, “Yes, I will make you a sword.”

I went to my workshop.

Unbidden, they (he and his big brother) followed me.  They followed me at a distance.  I’d had time to get the sword into my wood vise, I turned and there they were, looking over my shoulder.

I’d clamped the wood in my vise because I was going to plane it.

Planes have been a mystery to me until recently.  My Grandpa Byrd had had planes.  He was a carpenter, so, yeah.  But I’d never really touched one, and I didn’t really know what they were good for.

What they are good for is planing wood. To set them (tune them is the phrase used) so that they take thin, thin shavings of wood from whatever board you are planing.  The wood is to come off in thin, translucent curls. The floor of one’s shop should be forever covered in such curls.

So there I was with the wood clamped in the vise and with my two grandsons peering over my shoulder.  I began to plane.

I’d just tuned my plane last week, so the wood was coming off in nice, translucent shavings.  First, they were dull because the wood had been so stained by rain, sun, and weather in general, but then slowly they became brighter. The curls became brighter and a subtle scent began to enter my nostrils: Cedar.  This was a cedar picket from someone’s picket fence.  (Where did that little scoundrel get it? I don’t have a fence with that type of picket in it.)

The wood itself became shiny, red, and beautifully textured.

I turned it from one side to the next as the grandsons looked on, occasionally taking breaks to play with curls of cedar and mess around in my sawdust. (The youngest, in particular, loves sawdust.  His grandmother and mother think it's annoying; to me it looks like opportunity.)

After a few minutes of planing, I extricated the sword from the vise, and handed it to my grandson with some warnings:

“Do not poke anybody with it, do not hit anything with it, and whatever you do, don’t poke it in a cat’s butthole.”

I’m hoping that the last one didn’t give him any ideas.

This took ten minutes.  I don’t know if the boys will remember it, but I sure will.  If they do remember it, it will be worth the thousands of dollars I’ve put into my workshop in tools and time

Heck, it was worth it anyway.

Bobby Winters, a native of Harden City, Oklahoma, blogs at redneckmath.blogspot.com and okieinexile.blogspot.com. He invites you to “like'' the National Association of Lawn Mowers on Facebook. Search for him by name on YouTube. )