On Tools

So my last post raised some difficult questions about technology that I'm wanting answered.  Mr. Sayer posted a great comment about it that needs to be addressed and it was always my intention to look at these things honestly as they apply to my place and life.  So, in the spirit of this here blog, I began to wander around my house and think about my niggers.  The dishwasher remains off limits because Sayer is right.  As it sloshes about in the kitchen we can enjoy a bit of quality time roughhousing with the boys, reading and knitting scarves and doing all the idyllic things of modern life like watching such TV shows as Ugly People Who Can't Sing But Think They Can and Fat People Riding Bikes.  There's just no replacing that kind of quality time.  I mean, imagine having to wash dishes together instead of wanking your soul off to the TV.  That's the Dark Age's man. 

I'd actually like to talk sometime about the fact that Sara and I don't often work together in any manual labor sense.  We work together raising our boys and having boys (wink, wink), we work together on the yard occasionally which is nice, but when it comes to home economy it's not something that we do together very often as a team.  We don't dig holes together or run fences or split wood or all those myriad of things that might be considered work.  Washing dishes just made me think of that but that's another post.

I wanted to narrow this work idea down to a single example that I could wrap my mind around and I found it not in intellectual pursuit but in the work itself while hammering away at the "Bathroom Project."  Last night I decided to start using a handsaw.  I'm finishing up my framing downstairs.  It's been a bit of a puzzle getting around the ductwork and the furnace room and making the door rough-ins plumb, square, and true as well as wide enough.  All that aside, a large part of framing is cutting 2x4's to length.  This is simple work many of you are familiar with.  Slap a tape measure on the board.  Measure its length.  Mark the length you want it to be.  Square your line to the board.  Pull the trigger on an old craftsman circular saw your father gave you and grind, smoke, chip, and generally force your way through the wood with a dull blade spinning at a few thousand rpms.  It's all very simple, loud, and egregiously violent.  The squealing that emanates from the garage rivals that of a pig slaughter house and that's before I manage to mangle the end of my finger with a kick back off the blade. 

Now I know I'm lazy.  I should get my blade sharpened or buy a new one.  I've been meaning to.  They're expensive either way.  And I don't have to.  I've framed my basement with a dull blade.  All my blades are dull.  My table saw, circular saw, and chop saw are all wood smokers.  The chop saw can't even get through a 2x4 now since I tagged an old nail with it 20 cuts ago.  It fills the shop with smoke till I'm afraid the board's gonna instantaneously combust.  It's pretty bad when you have to dip your fresh cut wood in a bucket of water cause it's smoking like you've just acetylened it like old spring steel.  My excuse is, I'm just framing not building fine furniture.  If the board is shorter when I'm done then I've accomplished my task and I've not had to work that hard at it.  If my blade is sharp then it works better but it doesn't have to be and I don't really have to think about it beyond keeping my fingers out of the way.  Just push harder my Neanderthal friend, just push harder.  And the thing is: I can.  I can be stupid.  I can treat my tools like a... well Wendell said it best. 

As I'm burning through these boards I have a vague feeling of unease.  Why?  Suddenly last night I'm working and I realize this is Wendell's point.  I set the saw aside, listening to the quiet settle on the shop after being filled with the banshee scream of the saw and I thought, what the F$%# am I doing.  The faint smell of burning wood tinged my nostrils.  I walked over to my peg board, mostly empty of any tools I actually use, and pulled off one of four hand saws I have hanging there.  I've collected them over time, all free, from my father, great uncle, grandfather, etc.  I can't turn down any tool.  It is one of my weaknesses.  I picked one that seemed solid and sharp and I pulled up a board, measured, marked and cut its end off.  The rhythm of the saw filled my arm.  The quiet raking of the teeth across the wood grain filled my ears.  The smell of sawdust filled my nose but not in great smoking clouds.  The board gave away and in a matter of seconds fell into two pieces just as I desired.  I risked no bodily harm.  My ears weren't ringing.  The saw spronged once or twice but I picked up its rhythm well enough in time.  I enjoyed the effort involved.  It was work. 

My father used a hand saw for as long as I can remember growing up.  He taught me how.  If you don't know then they are very frustrating to use.  The springy steel bounces and warps and jams and skips up the board.  The key he taught me, which came back to me, is keeping the force of your arm straight behind the saw.  You have to make the saw and arm all nice and perpendicular to the board and swing it through with a smooth, strong stroke that doesn't wobble.  Your arm has to mate with the saw.  And the rhythm is important.  It's steady and mathematical.  It powers on the down stroke and rests on the up stroke.  It's something that you have to know and learn.  You can't be ignorant and cut a board with much success.  I of course have already proven the opposite with the power saw.  A monkey could cut something with a power saw.  It may be another monkey's arm but something will be cut. 

My father doesn't use a handsaw anymore.  He can.  I remember watching him saw 2x4's when I was young and they were like lard beneath a hot knife for him.  For me they were like rubber noodles beneath a scoop shovel.  I envied the old man his natural ability to make long boards into short boards so easily.  He uses a chop saw and circular saw like everyone now and has for a long time.  He's good at them as well.  They're good technology and they have their place.  I'd not want to run a hand saw the width of a piece of eight foot ply, though with the right amount of skill and a sharp blade you could.  It sounds like a lot of work. 

So, I've decided that I will cut all the rest of my framing boards by hand for this project.  That will be only a dozen boards or so till I'm done.  A lot little a bit late.  What price did I pay for the power?  I used electricity which I paid for and polluted for and bent over for.  I'm nearly half deaf already.  I don't know how much sawdust and chemical glue I've snorted over the years from cutting boards but I've filled my lungs a few times and come out of the shop with snot and tears running down my face.  I've mangled my fingers twice though I've not lost any yet.  I haven't paid money for most my power tools cause they're old and were given to me or salvaged or gifted and my brother and father have every tool I could ever hope to borrow but I know how much they cost and it's a hefty investment.  What have I gained by power?  Ease.  Ignorance.  Speed.  But I found not dealing with cords increased my efficiency.  I don't get cords tangled or trip on them and I never run out of power or have to find power with a hand saw.  When you know how to use a hand saw it's not actually that much more difficult but you can't work in ignorance.  It's impossible to treat your tools with contempt because they won't work for you if you do.  They have to be sharp and well maintained and well used.  You have to work well. 

Last summer my brother David was back from Boston where he's attending North Bennet Street School.  This is one of the oldest and finest trade schools in the country teaching furniture making.  David is the quintessential craftsmen, with the wild beard and stubborn streak to go with it.  He and I, many years past, built a simple, solid cherry, dining room table for Sara and I to use, us being newly married and having nothing of the sort yet.  I love that table and it's been a beautiful addition to our house.  This last summer, seeing that the finish we'd used had not held up well over the years, he and I set aside a couple days to refinish the surface.  We hauled the table outside and worked in the shade of our large maple tree.  The sounds of the neighborhood filled the air.  The tree leaves rustled and stirred and we talked and drank beer and worked.  Half assed philosophy and fishing stories were abundant.  You could smell the summer air and the fresh breeze rolling down the street.  The boys would come out and run around and help us with the table and sit on its edge while we worked, examining all our doings.  All you could hear from our being there was the soft sliding of blade and metal across wood and good conversation.  All you could smell from our being there was the world as it was.  All you could see was the bright red strips of cherry rolling up in long curls off the table top as we moved the hand planes across its surface.  All you could feel was the sweat on your forehead and the ache of your arm as it changed the wood in front of you and the soft breeze on your neck and the cool beer in your hand as you waited your turn at the plane.  As we worked the surface with David's hand planes he showed me the grain and how it affected your blade and how one should approach the wood and deal with the wood as it was in that table and only in that table.  No table would be approached the same.  No wood could be approached the same. And he showed me how to sharpen and adjust the blades and feel their edge for trueness and how deep to work the cut for the circumstance and all the things that he had learned in a year of woodworking under tutelage.  This was knowledge that could not be plugged in and had to be lived out.  Even with his help I was not as worthy to the task as he was both in physical capacity and skill. 

It was not just these work joys that amazed me but the quality of the craftsmanship was astounding.  As we began taking away finish and wood it became immediately apparent that our first attempt years before with the belt sander had left a surface more uneven than you would imagine.  It had dips and peaks and drop offs and these began to disappear under our care.  When we were done that tabletop was within 1/1000th of an inch perfectly flat.  What real worth is in that kind of craftsmanship besides the soul's worth?  This is about usefulness after all.  Two months later Shepherd spilled his milk on the table and instead of rolling off into my lap or his or across the table to the one irreplaceable manuscript I had unwittingly placed in harms way the milk just sat there in a puddle.  It didn't move an inch.  Flat may be useful after all.

I have to say that this changed how I look at tools and wood in the woodworking sense.  None of the joys of that day would have been revealed had we been belt sanding or power planing.  When I'm working and I pull out the saw my boys go running for the door.  "Gonna be loud," they shout and want nothing to do with it.  When we were hand planing they were under our feet and all about and watching and learning and being at work with us.  What value have I lost with power?  Do I even know until I've let it go?