One of the few truths in woodworking is this: The hardware you choose is as important as the boards you select, the joinery you use and the finish you apply.

Cheap, mismatched or poorly scaled hardware will ruin a piece – like using ramen pallet wood for a highboy.

At the Victoria & Albert Museum in London, one of the museum’s largest public collections is its ironwork display. This fantastic ferrite section contains everything from hinges and locks to gates and signposts. I spent as much time looking at the museum’s ironwork as I did at its furniture. The beauty of these handmade articles was enough to convince me that I need to make friends with a blacksmith.

Take a gander at this unremarkable and thoroughly mongrelized cupboard. The piece dates from the 14th century and was said to belong to the last Abbot of Whalley. During its lifetime, it has been scraped of its original finish. Shortened. New back. New shelves. And an extra foot added to the middle.

Despite all this, the piece is impressive because of the hardware. Forget about the inconvenient design of the cupboard (only the two center panels open), or the split wood, or that the top that is made from the gnarliest piece of wood I’ve ever seen in a museum. The hardware is awesome, and it makes this forgettable piece into something worth preserving.

Now if I could just find the item number for this hardware in the Lee Valley catalog….

— Christopher Schwarz

Last year my spouse did something completely insane for my birthday: She bought me something I asked for (but I really should not have).

It was a used bourbon barrel – white oak, banded in steel hoops and charred on on the inside. With a nice big bung hole. My dream was to have one of these barrels as my garbage can at the end of my vise. No more plastic for me. Just a giant gaping black maw of charred oak with some sweet bourbon redolence mixed in.

That was June 2009.

The barrel arrived via truck. No box. Just a label and a barrel. Still, I was excited as Hello Kitty on mini-crayon day. I rolled the barrel back to my shop. But before I wrangled it down the stairs I had a bad thought. What if it wouldn't fit under my workbench?

A quick check with my tape measure confirmed the drunken obvious: The barrel was actually taller than my bench. So I'd be ramming my handplanes into it. Dejected, I rolled it next to my Karmann-Ghia, where it has sat for 13 months.

After seeing some of the barrels at the Maker's Mark distillery this May, I became inspired to revisit my personal cask of shame. I decided to cut it down. Give it a flattop. Remove more than 6" of material and not have the staves fall apart on me.

Here's what I did. I "borrowed" a silver Crayola from my daughter and used a 1"-thick scrap to mark a line that was 1" offset below one of the hoops. Then I took a 5/8" drill and bored a hole adjacent to the wax line. Then it was less than three minutes of work with a jigsaw, cutting around the barrel until the top fell off. Inside were four bungs. Four?

The inside was as black as I'd imagined. I stuck my head in to inhale the sweet smell of aged bourbon.

Sniff.

It smelled like a wet bonfire.

Oh well. I rolled the barrel to my shop. It fit perfectly beneath the bench. I put my plastic garbage can out at the street. Good riddance. And what about the top of the barrel? Don't know. I rolled it next to the Karmann-Ghia. Maybe next year I'll deal with it.

— Christopher Schwarz

One of the interesting things about the "Joiner and Cabinet Maker" are the construction details you can find in almost every sentence. I've read the book at least six times now, and every time I dip into the text I unearth something I hadn't seen before.

It's not because the book is Pynchon-esque in its density. It was, after all, written for the crafty 19th-century adolescent. Instead, it's because I'm a little different every time I read it.

For example, I'm quite enamored with the feet on the Chest of Drawers in the book. The author is open-ended about the method for creating the ogee curves on the feet, saying only that you should take your time to get them looking nice.

Then the feet are mitered at the corners and we'll pick up the story from there:

"To strengthen the mitre, which is glued and sprigged together, a strip of wood an inch square is glued all down in the inside corner, and sprigged also to the sides. It is better to leave this corner piece a little longer than the sides, to pro­ject perhaps a quarter of an inch below them, so that if the floor on which the chest is to stand be a little uneven, a small piece may be cut off one leg or other, as may be required. They are fastened by glue and sprigs; or, which is better, by screws through the thinnest part of the sides into the chest bottom, and by a couple of sprigs driven in slanting through the upper part of the corner piece. The legs should be placed with the two faces flush with the faces of the chest at the corner. They may be farther strength­ened by two blocks of wood to each; an inch square, and as long as there is room for, glued into the corner, and sprigged both to the leg and the chest. These blocks are shewn in fig. 9. It is not usual to put in so many sprigs in making and fastening on the legs; but then they soon come off, and have to be glued and sprigged at last, with the chance of having been broken first. So Thomas thinks it best to make a good strong job of them at once."

For me, this is interesting stuff. The people who taught me about antique furniture and the like always insisted that these glue blocks were held in only with a hide-glue rub joint. If there were nails or screws in the glue blocks, then they were added later by the owner or a ham-handed "restorer."

Yet here we have evidence that some of the nailed glue blocks might be original. So thanks Thomas. This is another lesson I've learned from a 14-year old. And it's a bit more useful than the last lesson I got from a young teen-ager (which was that my blue jeans legs should drag the floor if I wanted to be "cool").

— Christopher Schwarz

This summer I'm building a few reproductions of pieces from the White Water Shaker Village that I will donate to the village's caretakers. I want these reproductions to be as faithful as possible, but I'm wondering just how far I can go on faith.

Take, for example, this 13'-long bench. It's all in walnut and nailed together with cut nails. The curves in the base are clearly cut with some sort of turning saw with a little rasp work behind. The notches for the aprons were sawn out.

So far, so good.

I think the top piece was milled on some sort of reciprocating saw. The marks on the underside are too regular to be pitsaw marks. They're not planer marks (like I've ever seen). And they are certainly not circular saw marks.

Is somehow reproducing these marks on the underside important? Or should I treat it like I would treat any non-show surface – fore plane it and call it done?

In other words, I want to use fairly authentic methods. I'm just not sure how far I should (or even can) take this.

We'll be publishing plans for four of these White Water pieces in Popular Woodworking and Woodworking Magazine in the coming year. This bench is the simplest project. The other three projects should get your heart thumping pretty hard.

— Christopher Schwarz

A couple years ago there was a kid in Iowa who was trying to learn to use hand tools. He had no teachers, just a few books and limited access to the Internet.

But he had a phone. So he’d call me and ask me questions for 30 minutes at a time. (Note to self: Get a 900-line for this. “Hey, I’m wearing a shop apron – and nothing else.”)

This kid’s first major crisis: Planing the top of a dresser. His iron was sharp. His plane was set correctly. His work was held firmly. Yet he couldn’t even get the tool to cut.

Diagnosis: Maple.

He was using rock maple as the wood for his first hand-tool project. I like maple and can get along with it fine. But it wouldn’t be my first pick for a wood to learn hand tools on.

I used to recommend walnut and poplar as good choices for beginning planers and sawyers. Both of those woods cut fairly easily with hand tools and aren’t stringy or hard or ring-porous or infused with silicates. (Ask me some time about the mouth-breather who insisted on using purpleheart on her first project, a birdhouse.)

This year, however, I have become smitten with Eastern white pine. It’s not common in the Midwest, but we came into a stash of it and I have been using it for everything possible. Unlike the yellow and white pine we get here, Eastern white cuts beautifully, planes easily and doesn’t seem as easy to mangle as the local stuff. Plus, the Eastern white moves less in service and (I think) it looks better.

On the downside, it’s quite lightweight and not nearly as strong as yellow pine or even the weirdo Swedish pine the local Borg is pushing.

But that, I figure, is just an engineering equation.

So this morning I’m building a complex frame-and-panel back for a five-drawer dresser. The back has six through-tenons, two blind ones and four floating panels.

I did a dry assembly of the stiles and rails right after lunch and everything looked nice and tight. So I took it apart to start fitting the panels when I snapped one of the tenons off like a Butterfinger bar.

I was too stunned to even curse. I don’t think I’ve ever snapped a tenon (by accident). The good news was that it was quick work to fetch a new piece and cut new tenons and mortises to replace the broken stick.

Note to self: Eastern white prefers 5/16”-thick tenons. But other than that, I think it’s the most hand-tool-friendly wood I've used.

— Christopher Schwarz

Sometimes when I look at old pieces of furniture, I can convince myself that perhaps old-growth timber is like melamine. It just doesn’t move with the seasons like modern wood does.

What else can explain the survival of so many pieces of furniture that defy the holy writ of hygroscopic activity? Tabletops are vigorously nailed to aprons without splitting. Stretchers and sides of sideboards have grain that runs contrary – the joinery should have pulled itself apart but it’s still tight. Wide backs that should have expanded and torn apart a carcase are still perfectly fitted.

Sometimes I think we over-engineer our projects to accommodate problems that will never happen.

This week I’m building a dry sink based on a circa 1770 Connecticut piece, and I’m torn between building the piece as it was originally made and building it to compensate for seasonal wood movement.

For example: The 26” x 26 door on the front of the original is made from two wide planks that are joined with a tongue-and-groove joint and battens. When I created my construction drawing in CAD, I drew it as a frame-and-panel door instead. I calculated that a 26”-wide plank door is going to move almost 1/4".

As I milled out the sweet-smelling Eastern white pine, however, I found that I had two 14”-wide clear boards that would make a door that looked just like the original. I held up the two boards and said: It’s worth the risk. The project will look better with a primitive wide-plank door.

Then came the problem with the top and the splash. On the original, the 26”-wide top is captured on all four edges by splash pieces that are nailed on. The top should have split or blown apart the splash, but it hasn’t.

I considered building it like the original, but I decided against it. I’m going to make the top so it floats in a groove in the splash pieces – basically like a solid-wood drawer. The end result will be indistinguishable from the original (except from the back), so I think that is a decision I can live with.

And then there are the hinges. The original has strap hinges on the door, but they are clearly later additions. But I have no idea what the original hinges looked like. And I like the strap hinges. So iron strap hinges are on order and in the mail.

And when the time comes to nail the living snot out of the piece, well, we’ll have to see what happens then.

— Christopher Schwarz

When I build too much stuff with straight lines, it starts to make me a little batty. So after finishing a blanket chest and a gaggle of sawbenches, I retreated into my quick, easy and curvy place.

No, it’s not a gentleman’s club, but it’s almost as stimulating. (Note to self: I must be getting old to write a line like that.) Today I spent a morning building a set of three Shaker oval boxes as a wedding gift. These boxes are an immersion course in curves, angles, steam-bending and nailing.

I first learned to build these boxes during a 2002 photo shoot with the undisputed master of the craft: John Wilson. After watching him make these boxes, I immediately built the bending forms and bought the copper tacks and some bending stock to make some boxes.

I’ve probably made 20 or so sets, and during the last five years or so I’ve altered some of Wilson’s techniques to suit my tools and way of working. And now I have it down to the point where I use hand tools for the entire process, save one little point when I fit the top and bottom slabs to their bent bands.

If you’ve never tried building these boxes, I highly recommend you give it a try. You can order all the materials directly from Wilson at ShakerOvalBox.com or buy a small kit from Lee Valley Tools. It’s so much fun, it might even keep you out of the strip clubs.

Here, in brief, is how I’ve altered Wilson’s tried-and-true procedures in my shop.

1. Feathering: All the oval bands have to be feathered in thickness at one end so the two ends meet in a smooth curve. Wilson uses a belt/disc sander for this operation. He presses about 1-1/4” of the end to the belt sander and tapers the end to almost nothing. I do this with a block plane. I mark a line about 1-1/4” from the end and plane a taper on the end. Takes but a minute.

2. Drilling: Wilson uses an electric drill with a 3/32” bit to make the holes for all the copper tacks and for the toothpicks that secure the top and bottom slabs to the bands. I use an eggbeater drill. I look for any excuse to use my Millers Falls No. 2, and this is a good excuse.

3. Surfacing: Instead of sanding all the parts, I surface them with a handplane or scraper plane. It works great with the straight-cut stuff that Wilson sells.

4. Cutting the tops and bottoms: Wilson uses a band saw. I use a bow saw. My way is much slower, but I like using my bow saw.

So which power tool will I not give up with these boxes? It’s the table saw. Once you cut out the top and bottom slabs, you need to put a little bevel on the edges so they will snuggle into the bands with a cork-like fit.

I have a disc-sander plate I put on my table saw for this operation. I tilt the arbor a couple degrees and sand away. Someday I’ll switch to a spokeshave for this operation I’m sure.

So how fast is this process? The photos here show what happens after an hour of work. I feather the ends of the bands, cut the “fingers” with a knife and boil the bands for 20 minutes. Then I remove the bands, wrap them around the forms and tack the bands. I put a couple plugs in each band to help them hold their shape and walk away for a day.

Tomorrow I’ll spend an hour fitting and attaching the top and bottom pieces. Then a little touch-up work and I’ll be ready to spray them with a little lacquer.

Because I like my day job, I’ll spray them here at home. Click here for the back-story on that.

— Christopher Schwarz

Thanks to expert mousing and clicking of two readers, you can download free construction drawings of the 2008 version of the sawbench featured here last week.

Louis Bois, the draughtsman who prepared the construction drawings for the “Workbenches” book, and woodworker Mike Lingenfelter have both submitted electronic files that will allow you to easily build this sawbench. Plus, Louis’s file also has plans for a mate for the sawbench – I call it “Little Buddy” – that will nest under the “Skipper.”

Louis’s file is a pdf and can be printed out by a wide variety of free programs, most notably Adobe Reader. Mike’s version is a SketchUp drawing that is actually a 3D model, which allows you to take the sawbench apart and see how it goes together. SketchUp is a free program from Google and well worth the download.

SawBench2008.zip (11.85 KB)

2008-Sawbench.pdf (121.53 KB)

Today I put a couple coats of finish on the sawbench while I was finishing a blanket chest for the summer 2008 issue of Woodworking Magazine. When I cannot spray lacquer (I use an HVLP and solvent-based lacquer), I like to finish projects with a custom mix that is difficult to mess up.

I don’t know where I got the recipe for this finish. Several years ago finishing expert Bob Flexner mentioned in one of his columns that he makes his own oil/varnish blends and his own wiping varnishes – instead of paying extra for some finishing company to do it.

I tried this finish years ago and is has yet to let me down. I wouldn’t use this on a piece of furniture that requires a lot of moisture protection (such as a bathroom cabinet), but it’s great for most things.

Here it is: One-third satin varnish (any brand, just don’t use polyurethane varnish), one-third boiled linseed oil and one-third low-odor mineral spirits. Just pour them all into a mason jar and you are ready to go.

I rag it on and then wipe off the excess. Thin coats work best. If I want to make the surface really tactile, I apply it with a 3M gray pad. Either way, it takes only three or four coats to create a nice warm-colored finish that has a nice sheen. The linseed oil helps bring out the figure in the wood. The varnish gives the wood a little protection. And the mineral spirits makes it easy to apply with a rag.

I sand the finish between the second and third coats with lubricated sandpaper or a sanding sponge – something around #300 grit. Sure, it takes longer than lacquer. But in February, it sure is faster than waiting for a warm, sunny day in Northern Kentucky.

Speaking of warm days, next weekend I’ll be at the Lie-Nielsen Toolworks show in Oakland, Calif. If you want to stop by, I’ll be there only on Saturday (my flight leaves Sunday morning). I’ll be selling books and will give a lecture at 2 p.m. Saturday on workbench design.

As a bonus, you can meet my wife, Lucy, who will be helping me at the booth and offering counseling to any members of the “Wives Against Schwarz” who happen to attend the free (repeat free) event.

— Christopher Schwarz

I end up giving away all of the sawbenches I build to woodworkers who give me those wet, doe-eye looks that say, “I don’t think I can build one.” That’s ridiculous, of course, because these things are as easy to make as a box of brownies. But I’m soft, I suppose, like the resulting brownies (always undercooked, natch).

The downside to my sawbench charity is that sometimes I end up without any sawbenches in my shops, which makes me nuttier than squirrel poo. The upside, is that I get to make more sawbenches, and each generation gets a little better.

This weekend I built the sawbench that me and my students will be building during my handsawing classes in 2008. This example can be built from one 2 x 8 x 10’, and it took me about four hours to do – I machined all the stock flat and cut all the joints by hand.

This sawbench is a little different than the others because it’s designed to be a hand-sawing exercise. All the joints are entirely saw-cut. No boring. No mortising. No chopping.

Now if you’ve gotten to this point in the blog entry and are wondering “What in Moxon’s name is a sawbench?” then check out this old entry on my blog at Woodworking Magazine. Sawbenches are magical devices that make full-size handsaws really work (handsaws stink at bench-height, except for overhand ripping). Plus, I assemble carcases on them, use them as stepstools, plane table bases against the sawbench’s bird’s mouth, and eat my lunch while sitting on one.

I don’t have construction drawings drafted for this bench yet, but you don’t really need them. Here are the basics: Make the bench about knee-high. This one is 19-3/4” high. The legs are angled 10° off 90°. The legs are notched at the top at 10° to fit into mating notches in the top. All the stretchers are attached to the legs with half-lap joints. Glue and screws keep everything together.

Here’s my materials list:

1 Top        1-1/4” x 6-3/4” x 32”
4 Legs        1-1/4” x 2-1/2” x 21”
2 Long Stretchers    1-1/4” x 2-1/2” x 26”
2 Short stretchers    1-1/4” x 2-1/2” x 12”

The only slightly tricky thing is cutting the feet so the sawbench sits flat on the floor. This is great fun to do once you know the trick. First put the sawbench on a flat and level surface. Then take small wooden shims and shim under all the feet until the sawbench is level on both its length and width.

Then take a small block of wood and cut an 11° bevel on one edge. Place this on your known flat surface and use the block to mark all around the legs of the sawbench (the beveled end allows you to make the outside angle of the legs).
 
Then clamp the sucker to your bench and saw the feet to your lines. This might seem hard. It’s not.

As always, I plan on keeping this sawbench until I retire. But that’s not likely to happen. Plus, I need to build another version that uses lapped-dovetails for one of the advanced classes I’m teaching in July.

— Christopher Schwarz

In high school I played racquetball every day -- sometimes for four or five hours a at a time. But the funny thing was, no matter how much I played, I never got any better unless I was matched against someone who could crush me.

So I would always seek out friends and acquaintances who could wax the floor with me and my little white sweatbands. After playing them for a few weeks (or months), I would edge up on them gradually and (with patience) eventually beat them.

It turned out to be an excellent lesson for woodworking.

When I build and when I write, I’m happiest when I am working at the limits of my skill. Every project and every piece of writing should have some detail or structure that is tricky to execute. If I’m not improving, I’m rotting.

So it is with great trepidation when I build a project for Popular Woodworking’s “I Can Do That Column.” On the one hand, these projects aren’t improving my skills much. They are the simplest joints (glue and nails, generally) and the level of design is generally Shaker, Arts & Crafts or some other straight-line style.

On the other hand, I enjoy the heck out of building these projects. The Pleasant Hill Firewood Box shown here took me about five hours to build all told, from making the first crosscut on a miter saw to rounding over the lid of the kindling box with a block plane.

This weekend I began applying the finish to the piece and I tried to sort out some of this stuff. On the one hand, the project seemed like a waste. As I was building it, I was trying to explain why the column was so important to a couple of readers who came for a visit. That you need to give beginners a way to get started in the craft without forcing them to build a highboy out of the starting gate.

As I was explaining all this, I was getting a look from the readers. Either they were indifferent (they both do very high levels of work) or they were disappointed in me. I felt like I was rotting a bit.

But then something else happened. On Saturday I spent three hours finishing up the construction. I nailed the back and front in place (wood movement be darned). I added the hinged lid (it took 10 minutes to fit it perfectly the first time). And I detailed the carcase with a block plane, softening lines and making this reproduction look as much like the original as I could. In the end, every joint was to my satisfaction. And the lid fit like a glove.

As I drove home Saturday I felt something weird stuck in my beard. It was sizable, hard and stuck firmly. After some digging (and yelping like a little girl at one point), I pulled out a nugget of dried yellow glue that had obviously been stuck there for several hours without my noticing.

There, I thought, that was the point of the day. I had gotten so lost in the project that I hadn’t noticed putting a dime-sized drop of glue in my own beard for several hours. Yet, despite my inattention, I had built this project in record speed and with great precision.  

I had learned something I couldn’t quite my finger on. I flicked the dried glue to the floor of my car and turned my attention to the road ahead.

— Christopher Schwarz