Workshop Tips You may Already Know -- Installing Metal Threaded Inserts, Correctly!

Recently, I was searching the web for something or other, (a video of a porcupine who likes corn? a Lance Link: Secret Chimp lunchbox?) and I came across this video.  At first I thought it would be about as useful as the instructions on a bar of soap.  I mean, C'mon how hard is this?  Sometimes the screwdriver breaks the top while you are bearing down, and they always seem a little tight, but this is intuitive, right?

I use threaded inserts when I attach table tops to their base, (this is called foreshadowing) and they look good when they don't snap in half.  Which for me, is too frequently.

Well, the tagline that shouted "YOU MAY BE DOING THIS INCORRECTLY!" drew me in -- and sure enough, I had been doing it incorrectly.  The video explains the correct technique much better than I could, and armed with this new knowledge, I sheepishly gave it a shot.  I'm happy to report that, indeed, that is not a screwdriver slot on top and that the drill press works a treat for providing even pressure while you turn the wrench.  Go figure.

So in case I'm not the last person to learn this, enjoy!  If I am, well, it won't be the first time I was a bit behind the times.  I'm still wounded by the experience of showing up on the first day of school with a Lance Link: Secret Chimp lunchbox and everybody else had switched to carrying their sandwiches in paper bags.

The Hammer Beam Low Table . . . Flattening a Table Top with a Hybrid Approach

I often wonder whether my procedure for a given task is the "right" way to go about things. I suspect that I'm not alone in this feeling.  Woodworking magazines make it seem very arbitrary - creating a linear approach that gives consistently good results.  And that works well, up to a point.  On the other end of the spectrum is an approach that says "I'll let the wood be my teacher."  You experiment with a number of known techniques until the wood yields the outcome you desire -- and those techniques may vary given the wood species, your mood, the weather, and the application.

As a hybrid hand tool/machine woodworker, I'm comfortable moving forward with my preferred method (generally hand tools) but jumping ship the minute the going gets rough.  This is how I approach the all-important flattening of a table top.

It starts with two things:  a Number 12 Scraping Plane and an open mind.

That's not quite fair, it actually begins with a sense of what's possible and important during glue up.  I always orient my boards with the grain in one direction in order to keep the option of hand planing to completion in play.  This limits my design choices a bit, but I've not found that to be too onerous.  Depending on the species, whether I'm re-sawing, and my deadline, I machine-surface my stock over a series of days.  Hopefully I can keep any post-planing movement to a minimum.  I try to bring the machined thickness to somewhere around 1/16" above my goal, but I've not been in a situation where (within reason) final thickness was visually critical.

This is a five board glue-up, and I do it in two steps.  Perfection is the goal, but I've found that it is nearly impossible to fully correct any bend down the long dimension. You must keep checking the joints to see that they are even and use a straightedge across the boards ensure that they are not cupping.  I use bog standard pipe clamps since I find them easier to adjust than Jorgenson clamps.  My experience is that in spite of your best efforts, the wood will want to move to its own stasis point.  Forcing joints closed with too much pressure can result in instability down the road.  If things really start to go pear-shaped, I stop, scrape off the glue, and think about resurfacing/rejointing the boards.

My finished glue up (I'm doing two tables at once) looks like this.  It is not perfect, but it is within my own personal tolerances for quarter-sawn white oak.  For the record, I find QSWO to be prone to movement after cutting and surfacing, and sometimes balky to finish with a hand plane.

Once out of the clamps, I have a go at all the glue lines with a card scraper -- doing this while in the clamps and the glue is gelatinous is even better.

It has taken me a long time to understand fully the real difference between Flattening and Surfacing.  The first, Flattening, has much more to do with geometry (is it level, across all the boards, with no variations between each board.) It is a prerequisite for Surfacing which has to do with the texture of the flat surface.  In this case there are ridges on the boards, and in some places the variation is around 1/64" of an inch. I began flattening with my Number 12 scraper, equipped with a Hock blade. The blade is honed to a 45 degree angle (with no hook), and I lean it well forward.  Moving diagonally, but with the grain, I come from two directions -- creating a crosshatch pattern and removing stock at a pretty good rate.

I prefer scraping to planing with a jack plane.  In my experience a scraper will only dig as deep as the blade is set (in this case, the thickness of a paper towel) without any real risk of tear-out.  I'm sure that there could be a long discussion here about "type 1" or type 2" chips, toothing planes, and scrub planes -- I'd I'd like to explore that -- but this is what I know and it works for me.  I'm looking to create a uniform cross hatch pattern that touches all surfaces of the wood.

I also look at the quality of the scraping to make sure that it is fluffy and long (not chunky or just dust) and adjust the scraper accordingly.

Once I'm pretty sure that the high spots have been brought to the level of the low spots I remove the blade, hone it, and set it for a very light cut.  I now go with the grain and remove any ridges left by the diagonal scraping.  I have found that this is an important step, and can save a great deal of time when I begin surfacing.  Finally, I break out my 5 1/2 bench plane, set for a light cut, and begin first diagonal then straight passes with the grain.  I'm hoping that with this light cut I can plane with no tearout.

. . . And right away tear-out begins to appear on one board.  I quickly switch to my high angle 4 1/2, and though it is better, tear-out continues.  I even give my low-angle jack a try, but it is no better.  For the record, I have found that this light-colored, slightly stringy oak can be difficult to work.  Using a card scraper, I surface the wood to a depth below the tear-out.  I suspect that with ultra light cuts I could get the rest of the surface down to this level, but I'm not up for the task.

Breaking out the RO sander, I begin with 120 grit paper and in about 15 minutes have the surface completely finished to 220.  It could have been done more quickly if I could have found any 80 or 100 grit paper in my mare's nest of a sanding cabinet.  Was this my first choice? No.  Would I have preferred to finish this with my 4 1/2 plane?  Absolutely.  But I'm long past the idea of pursuing a course of action simply because I want to prove to myself (or the hand tool orthodoxy gods) that I can complete the task with style points intact.  I'm interested in making furniture, not making a point. Now all that is left to complete are the breadboard ends.

I'm curious to hear about your procedure for table tops and results and style points.  Cheers!

The Hammer Beam Low Table . . . and Stumbling Through the Design Process

I would never have become a custom furniture builder had it not been for my time living in the UK.  My mind was open, I was surrounded by thousands of years of history, and I was exposed to rich palate of art, design and architecture.  And although there were some disappointments (Stonehenge, Marmite, Stoke-on-Trent), there were several things that just blew me away -- The Devonshire Hunting Tapestries in the V&A, Supermarine Spitfires . . .  and the Hammer-Beams in Westminster Hall.  Built in 1393, this ingenious system of timbers changed the architectural world forever, and made a statement about where England ranked in the medieval world.

This image has been bouncing around my head for awhile, and as I start to apply this style to a piece I'm working on, it made me think a bit about how I go about designing a new piece of furniture.  I'd be interested in hearing how you go about this process as well.

For me, I think I start by asking myself a series of questions -- not always in this order -- and not usually in quite such an organized way. 

What is the function of the piece?  Is it a table, a chair or a desk.  Regardless of how creative I want to be, there are conventions that I feel comfortable working within.  If I stray too far outside the norm, I move from working furniture, to studio furniture, to contemporary art -- and I don't have the design chops to hang with that crowd.  (In this case, it is a low table that can be shipped, flat, and may become part of a "line" of furniture that I debut in September.)

For whom am I making this piece?  Is it a custom one-off, or will I want to replicate it.  Is it built on spec, for a specific individual, or for myself.  This will determine whether I deviate from standard dimensions, keep a build diary, or alter my method of work for replication.  (I hope to build again, and it should be robust and appeal to people who prefer arts and crafts style custom furniture.)

I start with a big piece of paper, a T-square, a ruler, and some idea of what I want to build.  This is the base of the table.

What is the major design element?  Whether it stays within a particular genre, or pushes forward a single visual element, it needs (for me) to have a "plot" to it.  "This is my interpretation of a Morris chair", or "I'm going for a Usonian credenza look," is enough.  I like designs that are fairly singular and can be articulated. (English arts and crafts, Gothic/Gothick, Cotswold's style.)

What kind joinery will be used, and is that joinery part of the design (dovetails) or merely functional?  This generally raises other questions about cross grain situations and mechanical fasteners.  (modified mortise and tenon, both for function and show, and the design provides some efficiencies.)

The bending strip allows me to play with the curve using nails to adjust and hold the bend in place.

 Is this a machine project or a hand tool project?  My work seems to be primarily one or the other (with obvious exceptions.)  Before I start, I want to make sure that I have the proper tools on hand.  (Alas, it is another machine project, but there is some hand work.)

Can I visualize the order of operation?  I always get into trouble if I don't thickness all relevant stock at the same time.  Also, if there is a fussy machine set-up or cobbled together jig, I want to do it once and move on. (It's pretty straight-forward.)

Once I like the bend, I create a 2 3/4" radius circle out of fibreboard that allows me to trace a line 2 3/4" away from the curve to create a design element.

 Do I need to create a drawing (probably), make some templates (usually) or build a mock-up? (not that often)  (Absolutely jigs for the curved bits, and a drawing from which to make templates.)

What wood will I use? Which prompts the question, "How will I finish this piece?"  If the wood is particularly pricey, I may actually opt to do the mock-up. (Oak, with QS Oak or Pippy oak on the top.)


What will be the biggest challenge?  There is usually one part of the gig that wakes you up in the middle of the night.  If I'm in game-shape, and in my stride I may start with this to ensure that I can do it properly -- then everything is downhill sledding.  Or, I may want to refresh those skills on another part of the project and "work myself into shape" before I tackle the line of dovetails or that turned leg.  (Bread board top.  It's not too difficult, just time consuming.)

Is this piece "The One"?  Every artisan that I admire must have made his or her first signature piece without knowing that it would define their career.  Can I see the potential for something important in the midst of the inevitable frustrations of a first build.  (Who knows, but I do think there is a theme upon which I can expand.)

A sneak preview of the bottom portion of the table leg.  This is the only part of the design that I feel is complete.

Cheers! - And let me know about your design process!

The Perfunctory 2011 Resolution List

At the risk of sounding too self-indulgent, I thought I'd get a jump start on everybody else and write out my resolutions for 2011.  Looking at it, I think it reflects my hopes for the future, a recognition of my woodworking shortcomings, and an account of the things I hope to improve upon . . .

1.  Any blog posts will come with the implied "This is just the way I do it -- and you may have a better way."  There are so many great artisans that I would never want to think that I have the best methods or results.  In fact, I hope you are not shy in sharing your own best practices through this blog.

2.  Now that I have a pair of over-the-reading-glasses safety glasses that fit, I will have them on whenever I use any power tool -- that includes the drill press and the router table.  Plus, I secretly think they make me look like Sam Maloof (or Buddy Holly, or Brains from The Thunderbirds, or Rockin Mel Slirrurp.)

3.  I will get a hot hide glue set-up.  I used it once and I thought it was fiddley and that it smelled bad.  Now, I am fiddley and I smell bad, so we should get along.

4.  I will pay tribute to the spirit of Woodwork magazine.  I love all the unpretentious, mad-monk, woodworkers who just make it happen.  I love the way each issue seemed to be a labour of love for the (no doubt) overworked editor who made it all happen.  It is sorely missed.

5.  I will make sure that I can sharpen every tool in my shop.  This sounds pretty elemental, but it is not universal in my shop.  Obviously, I have the basic chisels and planes down, as well as my turning tools.  But my draw knife is simply functional -- hook knife, forget about it.  Scrapers, pretty good.  Moulding planes -- I don't know where to start.

6. I will learn to French polish.  When I lived in the UK, I trained to be a pastry chef while there was a French polishing school ten miles away.  Where was my head?

7.  I will bring in a couple of guest bloggers to keep things interesting or, at the very least, interview the woodworking stars who live right around me.  I see this blogosphere stuff as a virtual Guild.  I think we can create even more if we work together.

8.  The chop saw will be banished to the garage.  Sitting in my shop it is both a nuisance and a symbol of a different stage in my work.  It, will not be missed.

9.  I will take another chairmaking or turning class.  I have some world class people within a couple of hours of my shop.  If I want to take it to the next level, I must invest the time and money in our craft instead of always just stumbling around my own little burrow.

10.  I will thank my wife more often for understanding that abandoning my old career to focus on our daughters, my furniture-making, and our property was the way to go.  She has made it happen and my daughters make me want to be better every day.  You guys are the one thing that can't be improved.

As a side note, I've deemed 2011 "The Year of the Chair" -- Shaker chairs, Stickley chairs, Windsor chairs, contemporary chairs.  And that's where I'll start with my first project of 2011. 

Cheers!

Shaker Side Tables: Designing and Creating Imperfection #1

The third in this series of three shaker tables is a bit of a departure. During my last long cycle ride of the season I stumbled upon, quite by accident, the relocated Amish school in Nickel Mines, PA.  I was taken by the beauty of the day, the autumn weather, and the sheer joy of the children outside playing baseball.  I was amazed at how such beauty could exist so close to such tragedy; our own imperfection lying so close to our innocence.

On the long ride home I wrote some words in my head and sort of put those feelings aside -- until I saw this bit of wood leaning up against the wall at one of my hardwood suppliers.  There, next to a stunning bit of figure, ran two long cracks that rendered the wood virtually worthless -- except if you were willing to accept the beauty and the imperfection side by side.

So instead of building a double drawer sewing stand, I'll be using this board to create Imperfection #1, a tilt-top round table -- inspired by Shaker design.  And because of the size of this board, most of the cutting, smoothing, and shaping will need to be done by hand tools -- with some exceptions. I'll be using the pedestal base that I built a couple of weeks ago and fashioning a simple "bird cage" tilting mechanism.  So here goes.

Using a hand saws I crosscut and ripped this to about 120% of its finished size.  While crosscutting, the kerf snapped closed and I had to wedge it to finish the cut.  Duly noted.

 

The next order of business was to address the severe cupping inherent in a board like this.  I started on what will be the underside of the table to get a sense of how difficult this will be to work.  The crotch figure is fine -- almost like working a hard burl, no tearout, especially with the low angle jack.  There is one area (near the knot that I have eliminated) that wants to tear out regardless.  I pulled out my Stanley #80 cabinet scraper and worked that area.  I'm looking to get this fairly level but not perfect as I don't know how this will move given some of the stress.

I needed to take down something in tha area of 3/16" on the sides of the top, and a similar amount from the middle of the bottom.  Starting with my much-loved Stanley 5 1/2 used as a scrubber, I went after the top.  The low angle was great on the middle figure on the bottom -- and curiously -- a spokeshave put a nice sheen on this underside (I mean, why? One is low angle; the other is high angle!)

When I had this to somewhere in the vicinity of 1/32" flat I called it quits.  There were more cuts to come (that might unleash the tension I'd already seen) and I was going to be banging it around a bit (so it was sure to pick up some scratches.)  In order to figure out the layout of the circular top, I used two spring clamps and a length of old bandsaw blade set to a diameter of 21 inches. I drilled a 3/8" hole in center and used my circle-cutting jig on the bandsaw to cut this to size. 

So, if you think handling a naked bandsaw blade as a template looks dangerous, then we're just getting started.


The Occupational Safety and Health Administration, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and my own conscience require me to toss up all kinds of red flags at this point.  If what what follows next doesn't seem like the scariest thing I've ever done on a table saw, it will do until a scary thing gets here.  So even with all the caveats about guards, eye protection, and staying very aware of the moving blade, I'm not recommending this method to anyone.

At 21 inches, this top was too big to put on my lathe to taper the edge (which is about 1 inch thick and too clunky for my taste.)  I suppose that if I had an outboard rig I could strap it on there, but most of the work would have you pushing the top away from the headstock, without a tailstock to back it up.  So this is a non-starter.  Recently, I read an article about using your table saw to taper the curved end of a table top.  You hoiked it up on edge, angled the blade, and ran it through in a series passes, sanding the rough spots after you were done.  I thought, "Why not turn this up to 11" and do an entire circle in this manner.

So I created a set-up, with the help of my tenoning jig, that allowed me to angle the work back about 15 degrees from the blade.

I then used the same 3/8" hole on the bottom that affixed it to my bandsaw circle-cutting jig, and built a support to hold the top against this board so that it would stay in place, yet turn freely.  I started by taking a pass, rotating it 10 or so degrees, then taking another pass.  Here it is, part way through.

As you can see, there is a bit of burning that took place -- a direct result of the slight wobble in this somewhat flimsy jig.  And in spite of the terror it invoked when I crawled atop the saw and gave it a final 360 degree turn, whilst centered against the blade, I will use this method again.  I'll just build a much larger, purpose-built, jig that will be more solid than this arrangement.

In contrast to this two-hours-of-jig-building-and-45-seconds-of-terror experience, I was happy to get to some hand work.  I started by scribing a reference line about 1/2" from the table top along the edge. . .

. . . And then worked it to an even reveal along the edge and on the back. "Ahhh, what a piece of work is a spokeshave, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving."

 Next, I will layout, cut and install the butterfly keys, build the tilt-top mechanism, and install it on its base.

Thanks for looking, and please let me know what you think!

Striving For Imperfection

"There is hope in honest error, none in the icy perfections of a mere stylist." -- C. R. Mackintosh

I've been thinking a good bit about why we, as craftspeople, do what we do.  If you were to look at the cumulative cost of our tools, books, and stashes of lumber it just doesn't add up. Even the best-known woodworkers, those who teach classes, publish articles, sell their own line of tools, live modest lives.  In fact, there seems to be an inverse relationship between commitment to the craft, and success as defined by society at large. Yet, we persevere in an impractical pursuit for questionable rewards.

The world values perfection -- perfect teeth, perfect grades, perfect furniture.  Yet the things that mean the most to me are flawed, either by use or design.  It has taken a while for me to realize that success will come, both professionally and personally, if I learn to embrace this imperfection.  Not that I'm advocating shoddy workmanship, I'm saying that what we can do as individual artisans is to look at a piece of wood and understand how it might speak to the human condition.

The above bowl was turned from an imperfect piece of burl I saw on a neighbor's downed tree.  I knew it had flaws, but I thought it might be interesting.  Turning it was work -- the void in the middle made it impossible to ride the bevel and acheive a perfect surface.  In fact, I couldn't hollow it to the degree I wanted to as it was becoming increasingly unstable.  As a green piece of wood, it will move and warp -- hopefully not to the point where it breaks apart.

But knowing the why of making it made the how enjoyable.  This bowl is a gift to friends with whom we shared Thanksgiving dinner.  Having been to their house, I knew that the objects that they valued were things that had some meaning.  I'm convinced that the only way we can proceed as craftspeople is if we stay true to that credo -- what does this piece mean?  There's no way we can stand up to the pace or efficiencies of a factory, but we can create pieces that mean something to us or to those who take them into their homes.

Nothing original here, I guess. James Krenov, John Ruskin, and William Morris have said the same thing for generations, and that elusive coupling of art and technique is what keeps me in the shop (and being my own harsh critic.)

Shaker Side Tables: Of Dovetails and Woodworking Theology

I've long felt that woodworkers can be categorized in the same way that you approach comparative theology.  You'll find Amish woodworkers who use no power tools.  Evangelical woodworkers who believe that their way is the only way, and that all others will be punished with an afterlife filled with MDF and Harbor Freight tools.  Unitarians whose methods and approaches change weekly.  Presbyterian woodworkers who understand that the tearout on that table top was predestined, and that only the elect will make true heirloom furniture.

Look around and you'll find Lutheran cabinetmakers who feel that their techniques aren't important, but that all good furniture comes from the grace of the big sawyer in the sky.  Mennonite drawermakers that feel that they will be judged not by their ideas, but by their actions.  Hindu tablemakers who know that their ruined project will reappear in another life as a piece of baltic birch plywood.  Cultists who follow a charismatic personality (WWSMD -- What Would Sam Maloof Do.)  And most recently, we've seen the rise of what I'll call Samsonites -- Chris Schwarz, David Charlesworth, and Tom Fidgen -- who somehow derive their woodworking prowess from the length of their hair.

And there is nothing that will define these hard-won theological positions like a row of dovetails.

Theoretically, the resurgence of the premium dovetail saw, rip-filed and well-sharpened, has put hand-cut joints, with tiny pins and aesthetically pleasing layouts, within everyone's reach.  It is certainly my first choice and it carries with it an aura of craftsmanship.  If sharpening is a gateway skill, precision handcut dovetails ushers you from the realm of the journeyman to that of an artist.  They are (in spite of the videos that promise "Five-Minute Dovetails") time-consuming and there is a longish learning curve.  To add insult to injury, I've found that it is other woodworkers, not potential customers, who find them most appealing.  But still I persevere.

I have not reached that state of Nirvana where I can, Samurai-like, pull out the saw, pencil, marking gauge, and begin a stream-of-consciousness-mind-straight-to-wood display of artistry.  It is work, and it defines "workmanship of risk."

Still, I have no interest in being converted to a "Normite."  Dovetail jigs define blandness and scream compromise.  I guess they are not too bad for shop furniture, but I use shop furniture to keep my technique in some sort of order for real furniture.  When under the gun I use a hybrid approach, adapted from (I think) David Marks, that is a hand-cut dovetail, with an assist from a machine.

The heart of this "Middle Path" is a set of two jigs, designed to be used on the bandsaw, that cut the tail board and pin board with complete accuracy and flexibility.  My jigs are set to a ratio 1:8 and are quite simple to make.

Tail Jig
Start with something like a 6" x 18" piece of MDF or plywood.  Mark 8" down a long side, and 1" over from that mark.  Make a 1" wide fence from 1/4" plywood and connect it from the top left corner to the 1" mark down the long side.  A check with the dovetail gauge shows that it is a 1:8 ratio.

Mark your stock just as you would for traditional hand-cut dovetails.  Check that your bandsaw blade is running 90 degrees to the table and adjust the fence for any drift.  Set the fence a couple of inches to the left of the blade, place your work on the jig, and have at it.  You'll find that if you slide the work along the fence you can line up the cut line without moving the fence.  Just make sure that the wood stays firmly seated on the fence, and that you advance the entire jig while you make the actual cut.  This setup allows you to cut one side of each tail -- flip the workpiece to cut the other angle.  When the angles are cut, you can take the piece off the jig and hog out the pin waste.

Now, continue with a chisel to clean the half-pins and the pin waste.  If you are making half-blind dovetails, you will mark the tail piece and proceed by hand.

Pin Jig
Now mark the pin board in the traditional fashion -- be sure to mark the waste side and strive for accuracy.

I know that most bandsaw tables tilt, (some in both directions) but I prefer to make a jig that can flip both ways to make the pins.  My jig starts with a platform, with a fence, angled to the 1:8 ratio.  That angle comes from three supports that maintain that angle.  I cut the first support (on the right), then with it in place, put hot glue on top of a shorter support (with the same angle on top) and slid it into place.  I did this while the jig was on the bandsaw table and I could see that the blade would follow the correct cut line.

Just as in cutting pins with a hand saw, the trick is to nip the line you have marked, but not take it out entirely.  Just stay aware of which side is the waste side.  Again, turning the jig around allows you to cut both angles.  Your biggest concern while cutting is ensuring that you do not over run your mark (easy to do with an aggressive blade.)

At the risk of sounding like that Woodrat spokes guy, the obvious advantage is that you have complete flexibility to make the pins as small as you like, as no router bit is used.  You can also stop at any point and finish the work in the orthodox manner.  I guess the downside is that you need a bandsaw.

I almost forgot to mention, in all this meta-woodworking blather, that I did cut dovetails (by hand) for the drawer supports and I made progress with the Single Drawer Sewing Stand.

I write this blog to stay connected with other woodworkers -- so I encourage comments and dissent.  Let me know what you think.  Next, I'll see if I can turn the top to the Round Stand and build the two-fronted drawer to the above Sewing Stand.

The "Finished" Telecaster

The absolutely horrid weather of late (more than 3 ft. of snow ) has kept me pretty distracted, but I have had a chance to finish the guitar project for my daughter.  It has been a great project, not without its challenges, and I'm very happy with the result -- so much so that I'm watching an eBay auction for a swamp ash telecaster body for myself.

I won't go through the Grizzly details, (yes, I will stoop for this low pun) instead I'll just mention a few things that can apply to any similar project.

1.  When it comes to these high-gloss, exceedingly fussy finishes, every step counts.  The places that were glass smooth after the grain filling stage, and after the sealer, and again after the primer tended to be the places that took the final color and lacquer best.

2.  While the color coat seemed on the verge of sagging, the lacquer coats could be applied in a heavier fashion.  These heavy coats gave it the french polished type of finish.  That being said . . .

3.  Applying the finish to a horizontal surface worked best and helped to stop sags and runs.

4.  Give the final lacquer coat at least three weeks before polishing.  I found that the finish stayed plastic and evened out over the first week or so.

5.  If you are using typical abrasives (silicon carbide) for polishing, wet sanding is the only way to go.  The paper loads almost immediately when dry and creates little globs that scratch the surface.

6.  When polishing, use only the pressure of the weight of your fingers -- if you feel that is not enough, get a coarser abrasive.

7.  My backside was saved by the fact that we were creating a "relic" guitar with a slightly distressed finish.  If I needed perfection I would have failed.  I had hoped to make it perfect as a dry run for the next (non-relic) version but that wasn't the case.  But, I really like the way it looks -- used but not abused.

8.  Read all Grizzly instructions start to finish several times.  The instructions said "now secure the neck of the guitar to the body" at least three times before they really meant it.  If I had really bore down on the screws the first time I could have risked losing some grip by the last time.

9.  With a couple of caveats, this Grizzly kit is good value for money.  The specs were not dead on, but it got the job done.  Here you can see that even with the bridge back as far as possible, you really had to back off the string saddles to get the necessary 25 1/2" from nut to saddle.  If this isn't right, the intonation will be off.

And although it looks like the action is high, it is not.  The neck is not at all bowed, but I'm not sure that the neck pocket was routed (at the factory) dead plumb.  It gives it a bit of character.

The best surprise came after set-up.  If you'll pardon my Anglo-Saxon, this guitar kicks ass.  It growls more than my strat and the sustain is really good.  Even with the bargain basement pups it has that jangly Tele sound -- and all for less than 200 bucks.  I'm not sure I've been more excited about a project in a while.  And I think I know why.

Several years ago, after a long day over a hot stove, I was stumbling down the steps of the Piccadilly Circus tube station.  At the bottom was a guy wailing on "Voodoo Chile" with a similar guitar, and for that moment, I knew he was the coolest cat on the planet.  So while my musical ambitions have all but vanished, I still dream of busking, with a homemade guitar for anyone who will listen.

Please Don't Disturb The Elves While They Are Working

These weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas are always the most satisfying part of the woodworking year for me.  It is the time that I put everything else aside and work exclusively on gifts for the members of my family (like the little batch of picture frames above.)  For most of us, I'm sure, it recalls the reason why we became involved in woodworking in the first place -- the magic of creating something from nothing.

Hidden away in our basements and spare rooms are those first attempts, each displaying one or all of the things we now despise -- torn grain, bad design, machine marks, horrible finishes, mid project re-engineering nightmares -- but we hold on to them because they say something about where we, and those close to us, were at that time.

Handmade gifts have so many things going for them.  If we are thrifty and smart we can erase the modern connection between dollar signs and the value of a gift by making something beautiful from nearly nothing.  We can rationalize using up those scraps of hoarded wood with the nice figure because this truly is the important project for which we've been waiting.

It also gives us the opportunity to try out new techniques in a real world setting.  You've never done inlay, give it a whirl; bent laminations, why not.  It is truly the thought that counts, and as most of us have the ability to do at least a "very good" job on most projects, the recipient will never feel that they're getting second best.  If you are building a commission you strive for perfection; a gift needs to have heart.  Invariably these new projects require new tools, and with mock sadness you explain to your partner that you must purchase these new tools in order to keep with the spirit of the season.

More than anything else, the creation of handmade gifts allows you to spend more time with your family.  I don't mean in person, but in your own mind.  Because while you are building you can't help but think of how the recipient will use the gift.  You think about last year's gift and how much they've grown.  You think about their strong points, the personality traits you don't possess but are so glad that someone does.  You hope this gift will open the door to some new thought or idea for them.

I'm building a guitar stool and guitar stand for one of my daughters.  We both play and I'm amazed how her mind, free from the trappings and constraints of Mel Bay books, has created a singular playing style that I hope she keeps forever.  Thinking about her playing guitar is a gift to me that I'm enjoying today.  (An added gift is that thinking about her playing the guitar reminded me that I wanted to teach her how to play Proud Mary, that will be fun.  Which made me think of Tina Turner singing that song, which I've watched on YouTube with my other daughter, which was also fun.)  

The other members of my family are also in line for gifts, some large and some small, some more inspired than others, but each project brings me that same feeling of connection to that person.  The beauty for me is that on December 26th I'll be thinking about what they might enjoy next, and that keeps them in my thoughts throughout the year.  And they're a pretty nice crew to spend time with.

Craft In America

If you haven't had a chance to see the recent PBS series Craft In America, it is well worth your time to check out the full episodes that are available online and the snippets that give some insight into the artists' point of view.  Without pushing the metaphor too far, the production values and the thoughtful approach make the program itself a work of art.

Throughout this past week my wife and I have been out and about trying to avoid the depressing scenario that is the holiday shopping season.  With no real agenda we seemed to find ourselves in a number of artisan studios -- not really shopping, just taking in the vibe. During a trip to Lititz, PA we visited Morton Fine Furniture where in a storefront setting a craftsman did his thing.  The shop reflected the tastes of a craftsman and the savvy of someone who knew what would sell.  On the way home we stopped at the quiet and comfortable studio shop of Eldreth Pottery, where Santas from a number of years lined up like American Santons looking across the Atlantic.

In our little corner of Southern Chester County, PA there is an artisan community struggling to break out.  The recent creation of the Oxford Arts Alliance has brought a breath of fresh air to this area.  And by surprise we stumbled across an open studio day sponsored by a different group that featured a fantastic glass artist, Nine Iron Studios and a truly unique clay monoprint artist, Mitch Lyons.

Each artist had connections outside our little community (New York, Murano) and each had a slightly bittersweet view of their work, "I love what I do, but it's hard selling art to farmers."  But like those featured in Craft in America, each cared deeply about every piece he or she created and the process by which a work of art emerged.

I have to say that I felt much less cynical about the whole gift-giving thing after meeting these artisans and I know we'll be spending some time making a couple of thoughtful purchases from their studios.  Which doesn't feel at all like a favor to them, but like an indulgent gift to ourselves and friends.

New Woodwork Magazine

Hey, let me say that I'm not a shill for these guys, but I just received the new "annual"  Woodwork Magazine and I really enjoyed it.  I was pretty bummed out when they announced that they were ceasing publication, (and then added insult to injury by trying to fob off the dreary American Woodworker in its place) and I've since been amassing back issues from eBay and the like.

What makes it a great complement to Fine Woodworking and Popular Woodworking are the features on really interesting craftspeople and their push-the-envelope creations.  The woodworkers I most admire are the "Mad Monks" who crawl into their sheds, carve spoons for twenty years, live on a diet of porridge and PBR, and emerge with a totally new paradigm.  When the revolution is over, and I'm declared King, these folks will help me run the world.

This new issue doesn't disappoint and I read the whole mag in one sitting.  There's some promise that if there is enough interest they will move to a more frequent publication schedule.  I'd love it if they considered being a quarterly e-zine, but as said revolution hasn't happened yet, we can only support them and hope they grow.

Norm Abram Exposed . . . As a Really Nice Guy!

I spent a good part of my working life playing at a local PBS station.  And in addition to wearing an Arthur costume and memorizing the plots to every Are You Being Served episode, one of the great pleasures of the work was getting to know the icons that had such a big influence on the thinking public-- and among that pantheon was Norm Abram.  When I heard that he was wrapping up the show it reminded me of a weekend nearly twenty years ago.

Norm's spinoff show, The New Yankee Workshop, had recently hit the airwaves in the wake of the continued success of This Old House (sort of like when The Jeffersons spun off All in the Family.)  Norm was promoting the program at a local consumer home show through the auspices of our local station.  The place was packed and time was tight.

Norm arrived without a care in the world.  And while there was a specific timetable for breaks and down time, he ignored it and spent many hours talking one-on-one with the general public (sort of like how I expect he would dig into the cutlist of a cherry armoire.)  It takes real skill to answer the question "How many flannel shirts do you own?" for the fifteenth time and make it seem like the first.  Every block of wood was signed, every awkward shop-made tool was inspected, every photo was posed for with the same enthusiasm.  And though This Old House was going through an acrimonious break up with its main presenter (he whose name shall not be spoken), Norm refused to say a single negative thing about the situation.  Instead, he spoke about the need to get on the treadmill more often.

Two funny things about the audience data at the time:  Ninety-some percent of the viewers of The New Yankee Workshop never picked up a tool.  They watched because somehow, deep inside, even just watching someone complete a piece of furniture brought about a sense of well-being.  No surprises there.  And while men over fifty was the largest audience segment, it was only slightly larger than the number of children under five.   More kids watched The New Yankee Workshop than Mister Rogers Neighborhood! Because like Fred Rogers (an amazing human being) Norm was a sincere person talking directly to the camera about something for which he had great passion.

The New Yankee Workshop would go on to air for many more years.  Norm's no-nonsense delivery, seemingly unlimited stable of power tools, and love of dark Minwax finishes, would become the thing of woodworking legend.   And like my other public broadcasting heroes, Julia Child, Bill Moyers and Fred Rogers, he never flew the PBS coop for some other more lucrative deal.  Twenty-one years without a whiff of controversy or discord.  That's pretty cool.  As the program winds down, I've heard some say that Norm is going back to being just a regular guy, but the way I see it, he never stopped being one.

Why Furniture? Why A Blog?

So where did it start, this unhealthy obsession with furniture?

I suppose for me it was on a Tuesday morning, in Bishop’s Stortford, Hertfordshire, when I found an odd group of shopkeepers, gentry, and opportunists gathering at auction. Sure, they were paying for all these treasures, but the cost seemed disproportionately low for what they were buying. Because in my eyes they were getting more than furniture, they were getting little bits of history.

A Mahogany table, fresh from a local country house, mixed with an oaken chest bearing the date ‘1676’. Trays of silver, stamped with a complicated form of medieval semaphore, sat under countless rustic copies of “The Haywain” (This was, don’t forget, Constable Country.) Each piece was different; each piece showed the individual mark of the craftsman who made it.

I needed to have some, and when I returned to the states, I wanted to make some. The way I see it, no one remembers the best accountants of the renaissance, but they do remember the best artisans. And though my journey is only several years old, I’ve chosen to start it from the same place as my favorite aspiring artist – Combray.

My blog has been inspired by several others that have helped to elevate the discussion of furniture and craftsmanship/craftswomanship to a more civil and friendly level -- The Village Carpenter by Kari Hultman , Working Wood by Tom Fidgen, In The Woodshop by Derek Cohen, Philsville by Phil Edwards and the writings of Christopher Schwartz.  I hope that my contributions can continue in that spirit.  Enjoy.