When I first learned about dovetails, the tale was that this mechanical joint was one of the things that helped transform the squat furniture of the Jacobean era into the soaring vertical styles of the 18th century.

The problem with that tidy story is that dovetails turn up in early furniture and other carpentry constructions, suggesting that the history of the joint is far more complex than most people suspect. I’ve seen evidence of dovetails in Egyptian woodwork.

While at the Victoria & Albert Museum this last week in London, I broke away from my family to examine some of the furniture treasures there. An Italian chest from about 1500 caught my eye. Displayed in the museum at floor height, you couldn’t really see how the walnut chest was joined. I crouched down, and its delightful dovetails became apparent.

Now back in my office I have photos of interesting paintings from the 14th and 15th centuries that show dovetailed chests, but the dovetails are widely spaced and probably poorly represented by the artist (e.g. in some of the paintings the joints clearly wouldn’t be possible in a three-dimensional universe).

These Italian dovetails look very unusual to the modern eye. The maker of this chest had to join planks that were easily 1-1/4” thick. The dovetails are extremely thin and equally spaced. That is, the widest point of each tail was about 1/2” wide. And the widest part of the pin socket was also 1/2” wide. The spacing between the tails was extremely tight – perhaps 3/32”.

Other interesting details for joinery nuts: The top edge of the chest began with one very big half tail, and you could clearly see baseline marks on the sides of the chest, but not the front.

The joinery was A+ from a modern perspective. The chest wasn’t heavily stained or colored, so it was easy to see the remarkable fit of the pins and tails. I hope my work looks this good after 500 years.

I suspect this chest was built for a wealthy individual’s valuables. The chest is inlaid inside and out, according to the museum’s description. And it has two sets of hinges, two sets of locks and a false bottom compartment.

I wish I could have opened it and poked around the inside of the chest to get some more details, but they frown on that at museums (speaking as someone who has been the object of multiple frowns).

But at the very least these photos of the exterior continue to help fill in the often misunderstood relationship between furniture styles and furniture joinery.

— Christopher Schwarz

I like non-drying vegetable-based oils. Not just for frying up chicken, but for keeping rust at bay in my basement workshop at home.

What's not to like? For nearly 14 years these oils have kept rust at bay on my hand tools in a damp below-grade space (with the help of "woobie," and "spawn of woobie"). Well, I hate the little plastic spray bottles that these oils come packaged in. The spray mechanisms get gummed up. And the oils that come in lotion bottles end up depositing their load if you tip them over.

So years ago I went old school: tin oilcans. These little fellers were used for oiling sewing machines and the like and cost me all of $4 (I paid a premium because I bought one that wasn't all gummed up). They work great with camillia and jojoba oils, the hippie-style hair tonic and skin moisturizing oils of choice these days. The oilcan shown in the photos is about 2" in diameter at the base.

Have you ever used an oilcan? They are brilliant. Turn them upside-down and ... nothing happens. Turn them upside down and gently press their little tin bottom and oil comes out the spout. After a few squirts you'll become a master at dispensing just enough oil for a saw, a block plane blade or a handplane sole.

And best of all, antique stores and eBay are littered with oilcans. Heck there are probably a few in your attic.

Throw away the gummy plastic spray bottles. Turn to the tin side.

— Christopher Schwarz

Nothing drives a trained journalist crazier than an unanswered question.

As you probably know, the book "The Joiner and Cabinet Maker" doesn't name the original author. He (and it almost certainly was a "he") didn't put his name on the book for a variety of reasons:

1. Perhaps the work was too "lowbrow" for someone of high station.
2. The original publisher, Charles Knight, didn't want the author known for some reason, or Knight simply didn't think it would help sales of the book.
3. The work was written by someone with zero credibility.

Now, before you cast your lot in with one of these three theories, here are a couple other data points. For starters, many of these "Guide to Trade" series of books from Charles Knight were written anonymously. "The Printer," one of the other truly notable books in the series, has a fictional point of view much like "The Joiner and Cabinet Maker," but it has no author listed. As do many other books in the series.

So "The Joiner and Cabinet Maker" wasn't an anomaly in the "Guide to Trade" series.

Could the author have been someone who didn't know jack-crap about woodworking? I think the evidence is mixed here. Though the language and the book's "trade practices" match up with many other accounts, there is some evidence that some things are awry.

Point 1: Which comes first: The groove or the mortise?
When Thomas the young apprentice is building the "Chest of Drawers," he builds an elaborate frame-and-panel chest back. It's a lot of work. Maybe too much work. As I noted in the book, I haven't seen any chests from this era built like this. And, as Don McConnell from Clark & Williams,  pointed out: The order of operations in building the back is odd.

Thomas plows a groove to hold the panels. Then he cuts the mortises. Trade practice was (and still is) to cut the mortises first and then plow the groove second. This procedure has a lot more forgiveness built in than the way Thomas built the back.

In other words, the process didn't ring entirely true.

Second point: The book's discussion of dovetailing the "Chest of Drawers" is odd in a few points. Though the book insists that pins are cut first, the book then explains an operation where cutting pins first is just silly: Dovetailing three rails into the top edge of the carcase sides. It's foolish to cut the pins first here.

And while we are on the topic of dovetails, the language used by the author was a bit odd to me at one point. Though "The Joiner and Cabinet Maker" calls the joint a "dovetail," the joint is separated into "pins" and "the holes that the pins fit into." Other accounts from the period separate the joint into "pins" and "tails," just like we do today. It's just odd.

I don't know what all this adds up to. Honestly, most of the language and techniques line up with what we know of trade practice in early 19th-century England. But the exceptions do stick in my craw.

I have some ideas about how to track down the author and am working on it now. None of them are easy or fast. So does who wrote the book really matter?

— 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

Today I taught my 8-year-old to sharpen. It took five minutes.

Instead of teaching her about abrasives and honing angles and all the other theory my head is filled with, I took a hands-off approach to this important hand skill.

I showed her how to secure the blade in a honing guide. I showed her the three waterstones (and the sheer delight of squirting water from the plant sprayer into your mouth. Then Katy decided to use the plant sprayer to pretend she was a boy… a story for another blog and perhaps Katy’s prom night.)

Then I gave her these instructions for sharpening: “Rub it back and forth until it is as shiny as you can get it. Then clean it and go to the next stone.”

I walked away and let her give it a whirl. In less than 10 minutes she showed me her edge. I could see myself in it. (In more ways than one, I suppose). Then I showed her how to back off the iron on the polishing stone.

We oiled the blade together and reassembled the block plane. Then she took the plane to work on pine and pulled up the same wispy shavings she always does. She didn’t have some sort of Zen-like koan-solving moment. The plane just worked like it should work. And sharpening it was no big deal.

Sometimes I think our heads are apt to stop our hands. We read too much, think too much and worry. Sometimes I think the best way to learn a task is to do it without reading anything about it. (Boy this sounds like a dumb argument from a magazine editor.) Just do the task – fail if you need to – but perform the task from beginning to end.

Then read like crazy to understand why the tools worked the way they did.

Last year we did a little experiment with a new employee, Drew Depenning. I told Senior Editor Glen Huey to have Drew cut dovetails during his first week at work. Drew had never cut a single joint by hand. He didn’t know to be afraid. So he cut his dovetails and they came out fine.

With that out of the way, Drew could get on with learning all the ins and outs of the craft.

This works great in woodworking. Probably not so well at a nuclear reactor.

— Christopher Schwarz

Sometimes you read old accounts of workshop practice where there’s a pot of raw linseed oil by the bench. Andre Roubo’s bench had a little swing-out pot of oil underneath the bench. Likely it was used to oil the soles of the planes or the plates of the saws to make them slide more easily.

Today I found another good use for an oil pot on the bench.

I just finished raising three panels by hand that will be dust panels between the drawers of a chest. Each panel is a single board of 17”-wide Eastern white pine. Raising the first two panels was a piece of cake. But the third one had a nasty knot on the corner.

The knot was denser than any maple I’ve worked and so raising that corner was slow going, and the results looked pretty raggy, too.

To make it easier to push my plane I lubricated the sole a few times with camellia oil. It helped, but it was like spitting on a forest fire, it wasn’t nearly enough.

So without really thinking I squirted the knot a few times with the oil. That made quite a difference, and I finished up the panel with a few more squirts and a few more strokes. Not only was the knot easier to cut, but the result looked much better, too.

I better buy another bottle of the oil.

— 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

While cleaning out the shop a couple weeks ago we stumbled on a plastic-wrapped parcel of tools that were owned by the maintenance men from our old building. When they were "released on their own recognizance" by management, they gave us their old tools, including a lot of good Snap-On stuff and the gizmos wrapped in plastic that I fished from our rolling tool cabinet.

They were spring-loaded nailsets and centerpunches, like the ones made by Spring Tools. They look like a metal earthworm with an industrial Slinky for a body. These things are used to set nails. You place the tip of the tool on your nail's head, pull the spring back and let go. A small anvil in the spring strikes the head of the tool and drives the nail flush.

Senior Editor Robert W. Lang joked that using those tools was akin to showing up on a jobsite in a sundress.

Because I don't much care for televised sports, strip clubs or shooting animals, my manhood is already in trouble. Some might call me the Liberace of the Ozarks. So I quietly put the tools in my box. Until today.

I was setting a bunch of cut nails on a box I'm building and unwrapped the plastic parcel. I took out one of the spring-loaded tools and gave it a try. Well holy Laura Ashley, the tool leaped off the nail and put a huge divot in the wood (luckily it's on the bottom).

So I took a file out and shaped the steel head of the tool until it was flat and rectangular, like the heads of my cut nails. Then the tool worked much better. I'm not yet sure, however, if it's faster than the old hammer-powered method.

Perhaps it's like learning to walk in heels. Not that I know anything about that.

— Christopher Schwarz

Editor’s note: Here’s another great installment from hand-tool woodworker Dean Jansa. This one guides you through the process of moulding and assembling and ogree bracket foot.

The same chest that has the molding shown in “Sticking a Moulding” will have ogee bracket feet. Just like making a molding the first step is laying out the profile of the ogee on the edge of the stock.

Here’s a quick side-step: You'll note the stock I'm using is made up of the primary wood laminated to a piece of pine. Not all period pieces used this laminated foot. If you choose to copy a piece without such a lamination, just ignore the pine in the photos.

The benefit of the lamination is the added strength it lends to the otherwise fragile "ankle" of the foot. That is, the area where the ogee sweeps inward. As you will see, without the lamination, this part of the foot can end up very thin after the ogee profile is cut with the hollows and rounds.

As with moulding, start with a single piece of stock long enough to cut all the feet for the chest. I'll need six "foot parts" total. A pair will be mitered together for each front corner, and a single foot for the rear, for a total of six.

Lay out the desired profile on the end of the stock.

Remove as much waste as you can with a drawknife from the convex portion of the top of the foot. This is much faster than using a hollow to do all the work.

Clean up the profile with a hollow after removing the waste.

Next I create the concave portion of the ogee. I use a plow plane to remove waste from the concave portion of the stock, approximating the curve with a series of steps. The narrower the blade you use, the closer you can approximate the curve. But I find it is a balance, as too narrow a blade takes more time as you have many little steps to cut. Too wide and you are left with a lot of material to remove with the round plane. Your experience will be your guide. (Remember Riemann Sums from calculus days? Here’s a real world example!)

I work from the furthest point away from the bottom edge toward the bottom edge as my wooden plow has its depth stop on the left side of the groove it cuts. If you work with a metal plow you may want to work from the bottom edge toward the top of the foot as many metal plows have their depth stops on the right side of the groove they cut.

After the steps are cut, remove the edges of the steps with a chisel or gouge. In fact you can rough out the entire concave portion with gouges if you'd like. In maple I find it easier to use the plow to remove the bulk of the waste.

Here the majority of the concave portion is complete.

A little more round plane work gets you to the complete molding, ready to be cut into individual parts of the feet.

Mark the outline of the foot on the rear of the profiled stock and cut it with a turning saw.

The rear feet are easy, no miters. The layout above shows the side profile of the ogee, but I will not cut out that profile, rather I just cut the rear-facing portion of the foot square. A little rasp work, and a rear foot is ready for a pine brace and glue blocks.

The front feet are mitered. I choose to cut and fit the miters before I cut out the profile of the foot.

Fitting the miter first has its benefits and risks. The benefit: The foot profile will be full sized. If you cut the profile first you may have to remove some material when fitting the miter, making the feet slightly different sizes. The risk: You have to be careful not to damage the sharp edge left on the mitered edge while cutting out and shaping the foot profile. The benefit outweighs the risk for me, so I choose to fit the miters first and am vigilant while cutting and shaping the profiles.

There are options for cutting the profiles as well. Here I am cutting the profile with a turning saw.

But if you look the foot below you'll see evidence of a different method. Note the saw kerfs along the profile, most evident in the pine backing. Cutting the bulk of the waste with a hand saw and removing the rest with chisels and or gouges leaves such marks.

Having fit the miters and cut out the profile all that is left is the glue up. There are several methods seen in period work. Most common is to glue the miter and reinforce the foot with glue block with their grain running vertical. Here is a pine mock-up of the feet I'm working on, with vertical glue blocks and no lamination.

Now you can see why one may want to laminate the foot stock. Note how thin the foot is where the ogee sweeps inward. Add to this the crossgrain of the glue blocks and the result is a cracked foot at the thin point.

One solution to the crossgrain issue is to stack glue blocks so the grain is running the same direction as the feet. In the photo of the period piece above you can see the stacked glue blocks on the rear foot. This was a common feature of the Williamsburg area from the Scott Shop. Here are the stacked glue blocks on the front feet for my chest:

I'll add on last small glue block when I complete all the feet. The chest really is supported by the glue blocks. Again, refer to the period piece above, you can see the glue blocks extend slightly below the bottom of the feet.

And here you have it – an ogee bracket foot ready to attach to the case.

— Dean Jansa

I’ve been clinching a lot of nails these last few weeks while building some utilitarian boxes. So I’ve been digging into the literature to investigate the best way to do it.

Clinching (sometimes spelled “clenching”) is when you drive a nail that passes through both thicknesses of wood you are fastening. The tip of this nail sticks out about 1/4” and is bent over and driven into the wood.

Clinching adds remarkable strength to a joint. A 1948 study by the U.S. Forest Products Laboratory concluded that clinching can increase the holding power of a nail between 45 percent and 464 percent – depending on a variety of factors, including the species of wood and its moisture content. (For the complete super-geeky report, click here.)

Also interesting: The study concluded that bending the tip across the grain increased the holding power by 20 percent compared to a nail clinched along the grain.

But how do you best clinch a nail? There is more than one effective method.

Four Ways & A Trick
Here’s how the machines do it: They fire a nail in at an angle and there’s a steel plate waiting for the tip when it emerges. When the nail hits the steel it bends over into the wood – essentially it ricochets like a bullet or pool ball.

I’ve never tried this with a pneumatic nail gun, but it sounds like fun on a Friday afternoon.

For the hand clinchers, there are at least two common techniques. The first one is to drive the nail through the work. Rest a steel plate, anvil or a second heavy hammerhead on the nail’s head. Then tap the tip of the nail with your hammer. It will curl over. Then you can drive the drooping tip back into the wood.

The second technique is similar to the machine process. You drive the nail through the work and against a waiting “bucking iron,” which curls the tip and forces it back into the wood. (For a nice illustration of these two methods, click here.)

There’s one more technique I’ll sometimes use when I’m being really, ahem, retentive. I’ll drive the nail through. Then I’ll use needlenose pliers to bend the tip to the angle I want. Then I’ll drive it into the work. This results in a tidy appearance. I admit it’s a bit much.

When I have a lot of clinching to do, I’ve found that a cast iron table saw wing can be your best friend with flat work – doors, lids and the like. Lay the cast wing on your bench and then you have a nice big area to support your work as you merrily clinch away. And no, the clinching does not mar, crack or otherwise defile the wing.

There is one disadvantage to clinching. It can alarm your children. After I finished a lid I showed the 30 or so clinched nails to my youngest.

“Ewww,” Katy said. “Dad, does this wood have termites?”

— Christopher Schwarz

Editor’s note: Dean Jansa is a dyed-in-the-wool traditional hand-tool woodworker who helped ignite many of the ideas behind my book on workbenches. At our request, Jansa gracious agreed to let us post some of his hand-tool tutorials he prepared for a Google Group. This first tutorial coves some of the basic strokes when sticking a moulding by hand.

— Christopher Schwarz

I was making a simple molding for a chest I am working on and thought I'd document the process. If you want to watch someone who really knows what they are doing I recommend Don McConnell's DVD "Traditional Molding Techniques: The Basics."

I've followed the same steps he outlines in the DVD, but Don does a better job of describing the steps than I probably will.

The first step, after deciding on the profile, is to lay the profile out on the edge of the stock and cut a series of steps with a fillister that will later guide the hollows and rounds.  Note: It appears that I am cutting the steps on the edge of a large piece of stock. I'm not.  That rough board is just used as a makeshift fence to turn my entire benchtop into a long sticking board.



It is a good idea to build your bench as long as you can. My bench is just a bit longer than  8’, and I stick the molding on a piece as long as I can fit on my bench. When creating moldings by hand there will be natural variations in the profile along its length. If you stick the profile as one long piece you can then wrap the moulding around the entire case and have profile match at the corners. The profiles, over the short distance needed to cut the miter, will match. So build a long bench!



Here you can see the resulting steps left by the fillister. There’s no need to worry about a little tear-out, the hollows and rounds will remove more stock and they are pitched higher than my fillister, which reduces tearing).



Next I cut the concave portion with a round plane.



Then the convex portion with a hollow plane.



Finally, cut the last bit of profile on the top of the molding with a hollow. (I didn't take a photo, sorry.) Here is the resulting molding.



Finally, wrap the moulding around the case. First cut the front molding from the middle of the long board, then cut the sides from the pieces cut from the left and right of the front molding. Here it is on the case.

— Dean Jansa

As mentioned in my last post, I set my tools at the proper angle in my honing guides by sighting the tools against a little block of wood that is marked with the various angles I use.

As I prepared to sharpen my smoothing plane iron this morning, I took some photos so you could see how I do this quickly, accurately and without getting sliced open like a hog's jugular.

First, a word about honing guides. In addition to the small Kell honing guide I use for chisels, I use an Eclipse 36 guide for plane irons. The Eclipse 36 was the DNA for the $10 to $15 Taiwanese honing guides in every catalog today. But like a photocopy, the Taiwanese versions aren't as sharp as the original.

In general, the paint on the Taiwanese guides is too thick and pools where you don't want it to (especially in the dovetailed ways that are designed to hold chisels). Plus, the copies don't hold tools as firmly because things just don't line up like they do on the Eclipse.

As I've seen hundreds of honing guides in my 13 years at Popular Woodworking; and my opinion on this is as firm as my love for Belgian ales.

Here's the part where you hate me. It appears the Eclipse 36 is no longer made. (If I'm wrong here, give me a shout.) I bought mine from Highland Hardware, but that catalog no longer carries it. All my other searches for a U.S. supplier have turned up naught.

If you're a little cracked (like me), then I recommend you search eBay's United Kingdom site. They turn up there frequently, even guides that are new in the box.

Setting the Tool in the Guide
The first step is to position your little block of wood perfectly flush to the end of your bench. Use your fingertips – this will get you within a thousandth of an inch.

Now secure the tool in the guide but clamp its jaws loosely on the tool. You want to be able to shift the guide forward and back on the tool with finger pressure. But you don't want the guide to fall off.

Place the guide on your benchtop and roll the edge up to the end of your bench. Place the fingers of your right hand on top of the tool and press down. Move the edge of the tool to the end of the benchtop as shown in the photo. I have never cut myself through three (now four) presidential administrations.

With your left hand, push the honing guide forward (or back) until the tool lines up with the angled line on your block. For plane irons, I grind the bevel at 25° and sharpen a 35° secondary bevel. So I'm lining up the tool with the 35° line.

Now take your left hand and tighten the guide enough to lock your setting. Then use a screwdriver to really lock the sucker down. Then get to sharpening.

— Christopher Schwarz

As a kid, probably the first furniture style that I ever became aware of was the Prairie style, the strongly rectilinear forms that most people associate with Frank Lloyd Wright.

My dad had lots of books about architecture lying around the house that he used to help him design the two houses for our farm outside Hackett, Ark. I used these books to help me design model houses that I built using Legos and wooden blocks.

Lucky for me, Prairie-style houses and furniture are easily built with rectilinear Legos. And Wright's system of proportioning favored 2:1 ratios – that's the ratio my wooden block set used.

The last piece of the puzzle was the cape that my mom made for me when I was 5 so I could be Superman at Halloween. After seeing photos of Wright wearing a cape, I also took to wearing my cape when I'd build houses and furniture in my room.

I know what you are thinking: It's amazing that I ever married.

In any case, I've always been drawn to Wright's aesthetic. I've visited houses of his in many cities, I've been through his furniture and papers at the Prairie Archive at the Milwaukee Art Museum, and one of the highlights of my young life was sitting in one of his original barrel chairs.

So I'm quite excited to get started on a new project for an upcoming issue of Woodworking Magazine – an end table designed in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright. I didn't want to slavishly copy one of his designs, and so I'm hoping to build a piece that is inspired by a table at the Dana House (one of my favorite tours), and uses geometric forms found at the May House in Grand Rapids, Mich.

I've drawn a bunch of sketches, but I decided that this piece really calls out for a full-size prototype in wood. Luckily, we have some thick ash lying around the shop that's left over from a co-worker's bench-building project, so there was only a little bit of machine work required to get the parts in shape.

My favorite tool for building prototypes is my Kreg pocket-hole jig. This sucker allows me to assemble and disassemble projects quickly. I screw them together, shake my head at the stupid design choices I've made, unscrew the parts, trim them down and then start the process over.

This weekend I got the basic form real close after about three hours of work. My top started out entirely too thick. It was 2" thick and now it's more like 1-5/8". Now I just need to fuss around with the inside guts to get the geometrical designs inside looking good. My No. 1 concern is where I place the large suspended square. Because end tables are typically viewed from a standing position, I need to get it close to the floor.

I'm also a bit worried that things will look too busy inside the table if I put two of these squares in the base. Perhaps I need to go home tonight, put on my old cape (yup, I still got it) and page through some more picture books on Wright.

— Christopher Schwarz

If you own enough books, it's easy to believe almost anything and yet be certain about almost nothing.

Take dovetails. I've seen this joint cut with a wide variety of slopes during the last 15 years. And every person who cuts this joint has a personal or historical preference about the slope they use.

For some craftsmen, the slope varies simply because they eyeball the layout. Frank Klausz, one of the two living dovetail savants I know, says he cuts his dovetails anywhere between 10° to 15° off the vertical. Tage Frid preferred slopes of "about 10°."

Other well-known dovetailers use marking jigs to lay out the joint, which locks them into particular angles. Rob Cosman, the other living dovetail savant, uses 10° for softwoods and 8.5° for hardwoods.

For the last 15 years I've been cutting dovetails, I've used the angles used by my first instructor: 10° for softwoods and 8.5° for hardwoods, just like Cosman. But for some reason, I've become dissatisfied with the way the joints look when they are visible on a piece of casework.

So I hit the library a few weeks ago, and now my head hurts from the bludgeoning. Dovetails might take their name from a bird, but reading about them is a trip down the rabbit hole.

What the Dead Guys Say
To understand how little there is to understand about dovetails, let's take an abbreviated journey through the literature. I promise to be quick like a bunny.

Charles H. Hayward, the mid-20th century pope of hand-cut joinery, suggests three slopes: Use 12° for coarse work. Use 10° or 7° for decorative dovetails. There is no advice on hardwoods vs. softwoods.

F.E. Hoard and A.W. Marlow, the authors of the 1952 tome "The Cabinetmaker's Treasury," say you should use 15°. Period.

"Audel's Carpenter's Guide," an early 20th century technical manual, says that 7.5° is for an exposed joint and 10° is right for "heavier work." No advice on hardwoods vs. softwoods.

"Modern Practical Joinery" the 1902 book by George Ellis recommends 10° for all joints, as does Paul Hasluck in his 1903 "The Handyman's Book."

So at least among our dearly departed dovetailers, the advice is to use shallow angles for joints that show and steeper angles if your work is coarse, heavy or hidden. Or just to use one angle and be done with it.

At least in my library, the advice on softwoods and hardwoods seems to become more common with modern writing. Percy Blandford, who has been writing about woodworking for a long time, writes in his new book, "The Woodworker's Bible," that any angle between 7.5° and 10° is acceptable. The ideal, he says, is 8.5° for softwoods and 7.5° when joining hardwoods.

My Own Eye
One Wednesday morning I laid out and cut a bunch of these dovetails. I ignored the really shallow angles (6.5° to 8.5°) because I wanted to adopt something more angular. The 10° dovetails looked OK. The 12° dovetails looked better. The 14° tails looked better still. And the 15° looked really good as well. (The photo at the top of this entry shows a 15° dovetail with a bunch of alternatives marked on it.)

But I've some defect in my personality that keeps me from choosing the most extreme position, so I settled on 14°. And it's a good thing, too, because a few days after that, the mindreaders at Lee Valley Tools released a 14° dovetail marker (I really should start wearing my tinfoil hat more). I ordered one – it seemed to be a sign.

Whatever angle you use for your joint, you can rest easy knowing that someone out there (living or dead) thinks you are doing the right thing – unless you cut something more than 15°, then you're just nuts (or use a dovetail jig with your router).

— Christopher Schwarz