There is something satisfying about working with one's hands, to shape raw materials into a form both functional and aesthetic. There is also something worthwhile in watching one's design transform from a mental concept into a physical object. I enjoy working with my hands, and I have plenty of ideas. For me, woodworking was once an inspiring tool that helped me be creative. Life events obscured that fact. However, a return to my parents' house reminded me of the joy of building with wood.
It may be time for me to pick it up again.
This past Friday, I took the ninety minute drive to my parents' house in order to refinish a piece of furniture. My father had found a desk in my sister’s garage, and decided he wanted to set it up in his office. It had a rectangular top with sliding drawer, and a wooden shelf near the base. The thin legs were made of metal. However, through years of neglect, the finish had faded and worn away, revealing sections of bare wood.
I “volunteered” to spend an hour or two sanding off the remaining finish in order to apply a new stain.
After arriving, I sent my two daughters off with their grandmother to acquire some books at Barnes & Nobles. Then I sat down, and composed a few emails, responded to some texts, and checked Facebook and Instagram. In other words, wasted some time before getting to the important stuff. Finally I was ready to get to work (it was the only way to get my dad to stop muttering “procrastination” under his breath).
Off to the garage I went, with my father in tow. I donned my gear: ear protection, dust mask, and orbital sander. (es, after years of permanently damaging my ears and lungs, I make it a point to guard whatever is left.) Thanking God for the gentle, but stead breeze, and lower humidity (I sweat while wearing shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of winter), I made my way to the desk.
And soon realized the sander was not plugged in properly.
I plugged it in, and as I did it, noticed that the extension cord was piled on itself. The smart side of my brain warned me that in its current condition, the cord would not stretch when I go to sand the other side of the desk. My impatient side, starting to feel the sweat arrive and the clock ticking (it was getting close to lunch) said not to worry. Just give the whole thing a good yank when you need it. So, I left the pile of extension cord alone, made my way to the desk, and turned on the sander.
At that moment, I noticed there was no sanding pad on the tool.
So, I turned off the sander, went over to the box of brand new sanding pads, and began to open it. With one hand. Because the impatient side of my brain was in a hurry. This took a few minutes. And a debate started in my head, between the smart and the impatient parts, about whether it would be efficient to put the sander down before preceding. After realizing that the individual pads kind of stick together a bit, and would require two hands to pry apart, smart side won. I put the sander down, and went through the pads. When I found the correct grit (around 60), I picked up the sander, turned it over, and tried to line up all eight holes of the sanding sheet with the dust collection holes on the bottom of the tool.
And I spent another minute doing it, adding more sweat to the two layers of shirts I was wearing (trust me, you want me to be wearing two layers, even in high heat and humidity).
Okay, sander in hand, with pad in place, wearing my protective gear, standing over the desk, I powered it up. Nothing. Sigh. Smart side of the brain laughed; impatient side snarled. And sweat dripped down my forehead and started collecting in my eyebrows. I looked over to the pile of extension cord.
And the tool’s own plug had come out while I was sorting through the box of sanding sheets.
Frustrated and distracted, I plugged in the machine again, stepped over to the desk, flipped the switch, and sighed in relief. The sander started vibrating, and I was ready to go. After several passes, the pad gummed up from the finish. But I knew that would happen. Still, it reminded me that this process would take some time. The impatient side grew annoyed. I turned off the tool, left it on the desk, walked over to the garbage, tossed the old one, grabbed a new one, then headed back to the desk.
Around that time, my dad asked me, in a muffled voice (because my ears were covered), “How’s it going? Done yet?” (Apparently he had gone off to do something when I began, and decided to return at this moment—he would remain, hovering over me, from that point forward).
Because of the mask, he was not able to see my facial expression. It is the kind you give to the people who park their shopping carts in the middle of an aisle while taking their time to go off and look for something. And you are standing there stuck behind them. Perhaps my eyes said it all, because my dad backed off. I went back to sanding, replacing the sanding pads several times. Then I heard my dad remark, “you need another one?” But I was finally making progress, when I came around the front of the desk and discovered why I should listen to the smart side of my brain.
The power cord came undone because the extension cord got tangled on itself, and there was a piece of hardware still attached to the drawer, that needed to be removed if I wanted to continue sanding.
My shirts are now saturated with sweat; my entire face is dripping. Some of it lands on the bare spots of the desk, and some on the concrete floor of the garage. A few manage to get into my eyes. Sigh. Okay, hardware gets removed, the extension cord untangled and left in a loose pile near the desk, the tool plugged in tightly, a fresh sanding pad in place, and my dad hovering over watching. I turn on the machine, it vibrates, and I continue sanding.
And I am done. With the first grit of sandpaper. I have six more levels to go.
My dad was quite shocked to hear that I intended to make so many passes. He even asked me if that was necessary (as he sipped his cup of coffee). Yes, it was necessary. And after an hour of hard work, he soon realized it was worth the effort.
Before us stood a bare desk, an empty canvas, ready for a fresh start. The first half of the finishing process was completed. Now my parents just have to pick out a new stain color…
Then I can return some day to apply it.
Sigh.
But there is a point to my relating this experience: sanding that desk made me think about my own connection to woodworking. The last stage of a furniture project, the preparing and application of a finish, has always hindered me. It may be my lack of knowledge and skill in it, or the amount of labor involved, but whatever the reason, I always struggled with staining and protecting the things I built. Yet, as I sanded away each layer of that desk, watching it transform, revealing the joints that hold it all together, my mind began to wander. Memories of past projects hung suspended in my thoughts like the particles of dust which were creating a hazy cloud around me. As I moved along the grain, muscles aching, sweat dripping, right arm shaking from the vibration of the sander, I shifted from the present to those past days standing before a table saw with a raw piece of wood, ready to shape it. When the sanding was completed, I stepped back, looked over the final product, and smiled to myself.
The connection was complete. And with that excitement, I went back into my parents’ house and began looking at the various projects I had done over the years while I had lived there: a wardrobe, a wooden ladder converted into a bookcase, and my very first woodworking project, a desk with a hutch. Then I went back to my home, and found the others, a headboard and two nightstands, along with pictures of some carvings I had done (a name on a skateboard, the profile of a cat, and fraternity letters on a paddle). All that inspired a long Facebook post written that night, along with this blog post I finished today.
Oh, and a renewed desire to build again.
(To be continued…)
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