Crisp, curly ribbons fall at my feet as my old jackplane slices through the years. The hard wood yields hidden rings laid down generations ago when the world was a much different place.
The night is cold with its cutting wind, but it’s been a good day in the wood shop. Work is tolerable near the kerosene heater, as a distant radio station fades in and out like the memories of childhood summer days.
Funny how cold weather makes one think about summertime and days gone by. I am reminded of those hot days of my youth along the Ohio river near Tolu, Kentucky, where a breeze over the waters was as good as a drink. The deep dust of an old roadbed padded my bare feet and puffed out clouds as I walked. My father would shoot (at) ducks on the sand bar from here. They were so far away that I could barely see them, and it seems doubtful that he ever hit one with his pistol, but we were always facinated in his trying.
This Oak, being redeemed from aged lost causes, tends to have injuries and defects in all of the wrong places. I trim small pieces of walnut to serve as Dutchmen to repair blemishes in the table top. The color contrast will do less toward hiding the problem but more for the marking of events in the life of the wood.
In the childhood days of my father, an unknown man was found near here, having drowned some days earlier. He may have been a fisherman or a hand on a riverboat. In the 1920’s and 30’s it was easy for a man to disappear if he wanted to, and just as hard to give him a name if he couldn’t tell you. Efforts made to find the next of kin were fruitless and he was buried in the edge of a cornfield along the river. No marker was provided for a soul unknown and he and his resting place were soon forgotten.
