Things Can Go Wrong

So here is the craftsmanship of risk.
I've been fussing around with round stands recently, and this had been a road of bitter failure until I decided to try explore one of my favorite Shaker pieces in the American Museum in Bath. It is gorgeous, but its concept has never seemed fully realized to me. So I played with it. Success.
I've been interested, as well, in the interplay of bare with painted wood surfaces. So, with much excitement, I set about making a painted top for the stand. I had never used Milk Paint on wood with a bold, open grain pattern, but I had a likely piece of Ash to work with. My first sign of trouble was that the grain was horrifyingly twisted, refusing to submit to any plane on the shelf. So I planed across directly across the grain which, surprisingly, worked. A couple hours of axe and spokeshave work and I had my round and beveled profile established.
Then it was time for paint. And........it sucked. Grain that laid sleepily flat through three coats rose up startlingly on the fourth. And even once I had the finish just about perfect, I was left to appreciate the flawless execution of a bad idea. The rough texture of the grain steals the grace of the stand.

But this is still forward progress. The white top works for me; I only need to try it again in a mellower timber like maple or poplar. This is forward progress. I keep repeating that to myself.

Ripping

Descriptions of the early American system of cabinetmaking apprenticeship almost always touch on how little one received at the end of seven years labor: some proper clothes, perhaps tools. You also, with luck, could look forward to getting an apprentice of your own and doing very little of this again. Sigh.  

Today I'm breaking down a fantastic slab of curly maple for a small table I'll be building this week. There are many different ways to go about this. Most, perhaps, pin the board with a foot, lean low and saw away. For material this thick, I prefer to borrow a method of the old-timers. I just sit in the board, hold the saw vertically and work up and down, sawing towards myself. Its surprisingly follow a the line and, with big, large toothed saw, it flys.  

Saws of Despair

Sometimes, I don't even realize I am discouraged until I realize I am doing what I do when I'm discouraged. I start working on my saw. 

I do have a table-saw. There are times when its the only thing that will do and, as Wharton Eshrick once said regarding to tool selection, "if I have to use my teeth..." 

While some people buy saws, this tool, more accurately, happened to me. It was purchased by a family member who gave it to me knowing that I (1) needed it badly and (2) would be a total sucker for it.  

It was made in 1939 and though it has a Craftsman nameplate and flaking Craftsman blue paint, it was built by the Atlas Press Company. It was designed to work in a shop with a great spinning shaft along the ceiling and leather belts flapping down to each tool. Every part of the saw is cast iron or steel. It weighs a damn ton. It requires oil and grease to be squeezed into its gears and bearings and I feel like a train engineer. It is simple enough to be plain to me. 

 

And so last week, feeling low, I turned to the old girl. She got a new wooden stand and a new drive belt. She had her blade checked for wobbling (definitely, lots) and her arbor flange milled flat (flater). It thrums along now well enough for me to move on to other things. 

And she'll wait for the next dark mood. I'm thinking new blue paint.