Hello and welcome to the Hungry Woodworker, a humanistic exploration of woodworking, purpose, and trying to make a living from the skills of my two hands. I’m Taliesin and one thing I do when not working is write; some of those notes get edited into essays, which I share every other Thursday. Thank you for being here.
Salutations!
I just realized it has been a year since I started this newsletter. Personally, I love reading Substack anniversary posts where writers share what they’ve learned, how they’ve grown, what they’re changing. But that’s not what today’s essay is about. If I were more planful and reflective, I would’ve realized before this week that it had been a year and written you something witty and brilliant about it.
To quote an oft-quoted line in our house:
I’ve been reading An Immense World by Ed Yong. In one chapter, he wrote about the difference between pain (defined as mental suffering) and nociception (physical sensations of harm to the body). The chapter was well-timed: I happened to be reading about it in the middle of the night when I was awoken by pain and couldn’t get back to sleep.
So yes, my arm still hurts. But pain is becoming a companion, reminding me just how good the rest of my body has got it. And providing me new opportunities to read more.
One final thing—I’m going to be researching and setting up a better dust collection and/or ventilation system in my little shop. Have tips, insights, or poignant stories to share about your preferred dust collection system? Please tell me about it!
My essay is below. I hope your next fortnight is filled with chances to read good stuff!
A well-tended copse
You know you’ve reached a certain age when the first 10 minutes of any conversation is spent kvetching about injuries. I was standing in a friend’s garage inspecting his injured pinkie, which was taped to his ring finger. He was showing us its lack of mobility, how he could use his other hand to straighten the finger out and bend it down, but it caused pain and wasn’t easy to do.
Dad showed us the first finger on his right hand, which is curved like a sickle from when he sliced its tendons years ago. He can only straighten the finger with assistance from his other hand.
Thank goodness, his friend pointed out, that it wasn’t Dad’s talking finger that got damaged.
I joined in, lamenting my arm. And there we were for several minutes, and I supposed it was all normal times for those two old codgers, but it was a real eye-opening moment for me.
We were at this friend’s place to pick up Walnut logs. This friend is, like my dad, named John. (Since moving to Minnesota, we have met more Johns, Chads, and Melissas than ever before. Personally, I love it, because I’ve never been good with names. Now I can guess and have a strong chance of being right.)
John lives on land surrounded by hills and forests. About a year ago, a storm came through with vicious winds and tore down a bunch of trees on his land. He’d had commercial loggers come in to clean up the trees and had invited us over to look at and take logs that were left behind.
The loggers had also gone into the woods to cut down a few of the more vulnerable trees there.
I asked him about this—how do you know which trees to take, which to leave?
Taking care of the land means cutting down trees to give space for younger trees to grow, he said. He pointed out to the woods and explained that really tall trees in the forest are magnets for lightning, so it’s important to take those out as well.
We looked at a tall Walnut, still growing, which John had been tending for years. He said that when you cut off broken branches, it helps the tree grow because it can focus its energy on developing a strong crown. Ideally, he said, you want a copse of Walnut trees, not too many and not too close, to grow up together. When they do, when you’ve tended them during that growth, their crowns meet and essentially the group will strengthen the individuals and they’ll be better able to weather storms and winds.
The logs we were inspecting—the ones John had invited us over to take—were deemed unworthy by the commercial guys.
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“Unworthy” might be too loaded of a term, but in essence, that’s the case. Logs that are too skinny or too short or too crooked. Some are butt logs, the ends of the trees. Logs that can’t easily be turned into veneer or cut up in commercial saw mills.
In short: These are my kind of logs because they are weird and unwanted, attributes I appreciate. (Note: I’m decidedly less weird and extremely loved and lovable in my middle age.)
To me, these are logs ripe with potential—not the chorus, but the diva. Not like to become boards of a cabinet, but instead meant to be showcased as standalone pieces. But until we mill them, potential is all we’ve got. It’s all firewood until proven otherwise.
As we were walking back up to the house to get the skid steer, I had another age-related realization: I am not at an age where I need to stop walking to talk about if I know so-and-so who bought the local small engine repair shop.
One moment, the three of us were walking and chatting just fine, and the next those two stopped and had an extended conversation about John or Chad or whoever and his background before buying the shop.
So I stopped too, but mostly in solidarity. And I appreciated the cool weather, the chance to be outdoors, and thought about the amazing logs we were going to work with. Lots of poetic rumination for many minutes. I looked over and they were still immobilized by their conversation.
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A great while later, after John had used his skid steer with big metal jaws to put logs in the back of Dad’s truck, after we’d gotten back to the farm and Dad had used his skid steer with a pincer to grab the logs and put them on the concrete outside the barn, I learned that you don’t want logs to touch when you’re laying them out. Lumber that touches is more likely to trap water and rot. Walnut is valuable because it takes a long time to rot, but it’s still important to allow each log space to breathe.
Dad sorted the logs into piles of shorts, mediums, and longs. On Saturday, a couple of woodworking friends are coming out to the farm to spend an afternoon learning about the sawmill. I can’t wait to see what we discover.
Much of woodworking can be solitary, many solo hours at the bench. But none of us create any of our work alone. We need others for support, for inspiration, for help on occasion. I think if we can find the right proximity—keeping good boundaries while being compassionate and open—we are strengthened by our connections, better able to weather what life brings.