After I dragged my butt off the plane to Munich with no sleep, Heiko Pulcher did me a huge favor. He plunked me into his Subaru wagon and drove me to the Das Holztechnische Museum Rosenheim (The Rosenheim Wood Technology Museum).
It’s a 1,200-square foot museum devoted to all aspects of woodworking, from chopping down the trees to the machinery involved in the processing and the finished product.
I’ve never in my life seen a museum that is so focused on the trade. There were scale models of sawmills (from Roman times to the present), machinery you could touch, scads of tools presented in context and lots of ideas about how you could make a living working with wood.
Bending runners for sleighs.
I could have spent all day at the museum (we only had a few hours there). There’s an entire display just on riving wood. Another on bending. A whole wall of handplanes and how they worked and what they were used for.
It’s not a tool museum (though they do have lots of tools). Instead, it’s a museum about work (which is way better).
If I had walked into the museum when it opened in 1983 at age 15, I think my life might have taken a turn much sooner. I grew up around furniture making. My grandfather and uncle did it for relaxation. My father did it for necessity. But no one told me you could do it for a living.
A scale model of an industrial sawmill.
The closest thing to the furniture making profession that I knew about was architecture (our house was filled with architecture and carpentry books).
The museum in Rosenheim presents a much clearer picture. And it shows how the technology has changed through the centuries. There’s an entire display about wooden airplane propellers (they are still manufactured in Rosenheim), plus another display on wooden skis and a third display on wooden pipes used for moving salt water (true, that’s not a job you can get today).
And if I’d been there at 15, I might have walked out of the museum, enrolled at TH Rosenheim and gone full German woodworker.
If you are ever in Bavaria, the museum is well worth a visit. Right now there is an excellent temporary exhibition on Western and Japanese joinery, with a fascinating film on Japanese temple building.
Glen Huey, a great furniture maker, teacher and (I hope) friend, died unexpectedly on June 27 after posting a short notice about an upcoming medical procedure on Facebook. You can read his full obituary here.
I first met Glen in the late 1990s as he and his father, Malcolm, launched their custom furniture business and were showing their pieces in shows across the country.
I was working at Popular Woodworking Magazine at the time, and we were looking for new authors who could help us build a world-class woodworking magazine. One of the other editors, David Thiel, met Glen at a furniture show and was impressed by his furniture, his friendliness and his willingness to teach others.
It was a great match.
In the following years, we published dozens of articles in the magazine by Glen (and sometimes Malcolm). Glen was both ambitious and a quick study. He went from being a contributor that we assisted with ghostwriting to a completely independent and entertaining writer. (This is no small feat.)
Eventually, we asked if he wanted to join the staff of the magazine, and he agreed. Glen brought his skills and ambitions to the staff of the magazine. It’s completely fair to say that he was one of the key reasons the magazine rose in quality and stature. He had outstanding taste in furniture design. He was a fast builder. And what he built always elicited oohs and aahs from people.
I’d be dishonest if I also didn’t say that this success wasn’t easy. Glen and I frequently clashed on the editorial direction of the magazine. He thought I was too focused on hand tools. I thought that writing about handwork made us special.
This friction is (I think) essential to a good magazine. You have to have lots of strong points of view among your editors. Otherwise your rag is going to read like Melba toast.
I thought that Glen and I had a good and respectful relationship (he was the first person I invited to my 40th birthday party). But I might be wrong.
One morning, Glen asked if we could talk in one of the magazine’s conference rooms. He told me he was quitting, and he was visibly angry. It was obvious that he was angry with me and my editorial philosophy.
I immediately offered to make him a contributing editor and to continue to publish his work. He seemed a bit disarmed by this. I think he was expecting a fight. But I knew the magazine needed him.
After I left Popular Woodworking in 2011, Glen rejoined the staff of the magazine. Everything devolved into chaos there soon after because of corporate stupidity. Glen and two other employees left to start their own online magazine. And we lost touch after that.
Despite my checkered past with Glen, I have nothing but respect for him and his work. He was generous with his time and knowledge. There were so many times that I had to prepare wood on a Friday for a Saturday class. And Glen volunteered to stay late to help, though it was of no benefit to him.
He was willing to teach anything to anyone. And though he had a quick temper (Rule No. 1: Never cut off Glen in traffic), he also was just as quick to forgive and laugh about it.
When it came to furniture making, Glen taught me more than I can ever repay. Glen used to say: “If you can’t do it on the table saw, it isn’t worth doing.”
He was joking. But the guy knew the table saw better than anyone else I’ve ever met. And by watching Glen and working with him, I have a confidence and capability on the table saw that makes my day-to-day life easier in the shop.
But Glen’s biggest asset as a furniture maker was his eye. He knew how to build pieces that would appeal to a wide swath of woodworkers. His taste was for vernacular pieces that were just a notch above. Many times he could take a simple design and use wood selection (the guy adored curly maple) to make it something unforgettable.
He also wrote some great books before leaving the craft. And if you like traditional American furniture, I think you should own these as well.
After Glen left the furniture trade, he opened a donut business north of Cincinnati called “The Donut Dude.” I always meant to drive up and check it out (Megan did). It’s a huge regret for me. If you have any unfinished business like this in your life, don’t put it off.
— Christopher Schwarz
I have a few things to add to Chris’s comments above – but I must first reiterate that Glen was a massive asset to Popular Woodworking, during both of his staff tenures and as a contributor. He was also incredibly important to my development as a woodworker, and as generous with his time and teaching as could possibly be.
I’m glad I didn’t go down the hand-tool rabbit hole right away; I’d have missed out learning from Glen how to make large pieces of cove moulding on the table saw, cabriole legs on the band saw and line-and-berry inlay. He gave up several nights and weekends when I (entirely out of my depth) asked his help in making a spice chest for my mother’s Christmas gift, and we laughed together the whole time.
He was quite the charmer, too. My aunt and grandparents adored him; they met a few times when Glen helped move some things from their houses to mine – he was always willing to lend a hand.
I was overjoyed when he came back to Popular Woodworking during my tenure as editor. It was such fun to have him back around – until we eventually also butted heads about the magazine’s direction. We didn’t then part under the best terms, I think it’s fair to say. Despite the tussles, though, I missed him.
Last year, I happened to be driving by his donut shop and decided to visit, having no idea how I’d be received. I should have known Glen had long ago let bygones be gone. I got a big smile and a hug. Of course.
An unknown maker weaving a hickory bark seat. Photo by Warren Brunner.
The following is excerpted from “Backwoods Chairmakers,” by Andrew D. Glenn. Part travelogue, part profile and part how-to, “Backwoods Chairmakers” explores the tradition of the enduring Appalachian ladderback form. Glenn takes you inside the shops of more than 20 makers, with photos and personal interviews about their lives and techniques.
We sat for a moment before deciding what to do. My host and guide, furniture maker Alf Sharp, made the proper choice by staying in the car, which sat in an open yard and was clearly visible in the driveway beside the house. I opened the car door and started toward the front door.
We knew a chairmaker lived nearby. We had just left a visit with Cannon County, Tennessee, chairmaker, and he pointed us in this general direction. He told us another chairmaker lived on this lane. The yard showed all the common characteristics of a chairmaker residing here.
I was met by a large dog as I rounded the corner of the house. Calm and without agitation, he blocked my path to the door. I stood, frozen, in the front yard for a few moments. His vibe made it clear that I should not come any closer. I began slowly backpedaling to the car, looking forward toward the dog yet not into his eyes. I was 50 feet from the car and hoped he would allow me to leave. He followed me on my left side the entire time, a few steps away and without any change in his demeanor, until I found my car door and got back in.
He’d done his job, just as I attempted mine. After a few deep breaths, Alf and I were off again, looking for the next property with a shop around back and timber piled about the yard.
•••
It was the mystery behind it all that first attracted me to these chairs.
Our family had recently moved to Berea, Kentucky, so I could join the college and craft community in the small town in the west-most foothills of Appalachia. When we arrived, we didn’t know much about the place, and we had a significant time of discovery and adjustment.
I went about learning the woodworking traditions of central and eastern Kentucky. Ladderback chairs were a natural interest, and they were abundant. The chairs are staples at flea markets, coffee shops, junk stores, galleries and garage sales. Most were older chairs, sometimes spray painted blue or pink to match a child’s room, yet some were the current work of contemporary chairmakers. Many were mass-manufactured, with bulky proportions and aheavy finish. But interspersed among the forgettable were the idiosyncratic and charming handmade chairs, with drawknife marks evident on the slats and posts. This clue suggested there was once a considerable collection of hand-tool chairmakers in this region. My sense was that they were all gone, but there was no way to know.
Joyful child and Tom Donahey, North Carolina.
Before arriving in Kentucky, I knew the chairs of Chester Cornett: giant, bombastic handmade rockers, along with the charming, well-proportioned settin’ chairs of his youth. Chester worked into the 1970s, shaping his chairs with hand tools and, as his work changed, a small collection of power tools. It wasn’t contemporary work, but it wasn’t in the distant past either. Was it possible that chairmakers still worked this way? Chester lived in poverty while making his chairs decades back, and I figured it’d only gotten tougher to make a living since then.
Eventually, the idea that chairmakers in central Appalachia were still making chairs proved too enticing to ignore. I began asking the long-established craftspeople around town if they knew of any remaining chairmakers. Friend and long-time Berea dulcimer maker Warren May shared his dog-eared Kentucky Guild Craft Festival catalog from 20 years earlier and pointed out the name of an Eastern Kentucky chairmaker. Here was my chance to connect, if the phone number from the 1990s still worked.
I sheepishly called that evening, not even sure what to ask, other than to introduce myself and ask to visit his shop. He generously welcomed me and offered his guest room for an overnight stay.
Randy Ogle of Sevier County, Tennessee, turning a back post in his shop, at the same lathe his father once worked.
A few weeks later I drove east, fully aware of my ignorance, both in making backwoods chairs and mountain culture. I was, however, fully aware of the history of exploitation of the region. People from away – the timber and coal industries especially – took from mountain communities with little regard for its people. They extracted resources and profit, then moved along. Despite this history of abuse by outsiders, the chairmaker welcomed me.
When I arrived, I realized that I’d overdressed. I was immediately given the good-natured nickname “professor” for my association with the college, the pencils in my shirt pocket and my khakis. Then we got down to business and ventured into the woods on the steep mountainside to gather material. I fumbled along as we split and shaped a fallen ash log into chair posts. I lost my footing on the slope and clumsily hacked at the work, instantly huffing and muttering as we drove wedges into the log. I’d built plenty of chairs in the shop, but this required a different skill set.
Though I was out of place, we connected through the language and love of chairs. And that’s precisely where we stayed, sharing stories of chairmaking, asking questions, listening and learning.
I left at dusk the next evening, hoping to find the main road before nightfall. I had built (with substantial help) my first mountain chair.
Mike Angel (right) and Kelly Angel putting a back post into the bending form. Photo by Victor Sizemore.
Once I reached the monotony of highway driving, my mind returned to the events of the last two days. There was an immense beauty to the work that I had not experienced before. The chairmaker, on his ridge, working in the open air as much as in his shop. Life and work intertwined. A deeply held appreciation for the timber and his place within his community.
He took the trees around him and made them into chairs and furniture with a collection of prized hand tools and a couple machines. There was a symmetry and balance to it all.
That first visit was the spark that led to this project.
I wondered if there were enough working ladderback chairmakers around still to write more than a few chapters. A fellow woodworker suggested that I was “chasing ghosts,” and that I might need to resort to writing historical fiction. That was my fear as well, that Appalachian post-and-rung chairmaking was a thing of the past.
While it appears that the roaring flame of traditional Appalachian chairmaking has dwindled, it is in no danger of going out. Gone are the days of multiple chairmakers in every county, providing for the needs of their communities. Yet the old ways are not forgotten. The tradition is not dead. It has adjusted and adapted to the times.
Newberry and Sons Chair Shop (with the open doors) in Red Boiling Springs, Tennessee.
I sought chairmakers who derived income (either part or whole) for their livelihood and who made post-and-rung chairs. The focus is on central Appalachia, though some stories lead far from the region. Most of the makers in this book are still making chairs, or nearing retirement, though there is mention of a couple renowned makers of the past – Dick Poynor and Chester among them.
There are more chairmakers working within central Appalachia than the ones mentioned here; I am confident in that. While I chased down untold leads in the search for chairmakers, there was no way I could follow all of them. The makers are decentralized and disconnected from one another. This leads to beautiful, unique chairs, but it also makes them very hard to find.
It was apparent during the conversations and visits with the chairmakers that this tradition is not nearing extinction. Post-and-rung chairs still have much to offer anyone who wants to build them: a closeness to the land and material, creative expression, a connection to the community, the ability to create a cottage industry – along with doing hard, physical work and the independence that comes from being a craftsperson. Chairmaking, in this way, is more than an occupation. It is a way of life.
It didn’t take a professor to recognize the beauty in it all.
We’ve launched two new products today for those of you who like hatchets – and sometimes need to clean up the blood they leave behind….
“Video: Make a Chair from Green Wood with Rudy Everts” is a fun and informative video on how to build Rudy’s armchairs with green woodworking techniques. Rudy has been building these chairs for years and has come up with ways to handle all the angles in the chair using… a folded piece of paper. This video is about woodworking at its most essential. Basic tools. Simple techniques. And stealing the wood from a cemetery. The video is just $25 for the first 30 days. That’s 50 percent off the retail price. Read more about the video here. Rudy and I had a great time shooting this video in November, and I’m so happy we finally are letting it out into the world. Also, Rudy composed all the music for the video (under the name Tongues & Grooves”).
“Special Bundle: ‘Wound Care’ book + Slipcase + Our Favorite Shop Bandages.” Every workshop needs a way to take care of cuts, bruises and more serious injuries. “Workshop Wound Care” by Dr. Jeffrey Hill (an ER doctor and woodworker) gives you exactly that. To make the book easy to find in an emergency, we’ve paired it with this US-made slipcase in red canvas that has been hand painted with a white cross so you can see it across the room. The slipcase can be hung almost anywhere thanks to its brass grommets and screws (included). And, because cheap bandages stink, we include a collection of 20 of our favorite brand of bandages in the shapes and sizes most woodworkers need. We’re offering this bundle for just $43. We have only 99 of these, so act fact if you want one.
One of the most famous furniture makers and designers in the Midwest is someone you don’t hear much about in woodworking circles: David T. Smith. With this blog entry, I hope to change that – at least a little.
Smith is a long-time furniture maker in Morrow, Ohio, who specializes in early and vernacular American styles. Plus many woodworkers I know have worked for him during the last 40 years or been inspired by his designs.
My old boss at Popular Woodworking Magazine worked for The Workshops at David T. Smith, as did associate editor Jim Stuard and some of the other staffers who passed through the magazine. Troy Sexton, one of my favorite woodworkers, was a long-time subcontractor for Smith.
So during my 15 years on staff (1996-2011) I heard a couple hundred stories about Smith and his influence on the furniture market.
It’s hard for me to overstate how important this book was to amateur and professional furniture makers in this area during the 1990s. Everyone had this book. Everyone except me.
A porringer table at Smith’s. We basically copied it for the magazine.
So when Jim and Steve at Popular Woodworking decided to do a porringer table, I was astonished at how they came up with such a great design in short order. It turns out it was from Smith’s book (page 62 of the original edition).
I got wise. And I got my own copy of the book.
It is crammed with fantastic projects and techniques. Once I was shooting an article with Glen Huey and he built his divided-light doors in an astonishingly easy way.
“Wait,” I said. “We have to do an article on this technique you are showing me. It’s amazing.”
Glen quickly fessed up that it was from Smith’s book.
So get the book. Look past the 1990s-era printing and production values. The book was ghost-written by Nick Engler and Mary Jane Favorite at Bookworks Inc. in West Milton, Ohio. I worked with both of them for more than a decade (I was Nick’s editor). The information is fried gold.
Over the weekend, Megan Fitzpatrick and I drove to the Workshops of David T. Smith to attend its annual Festival of American Crafts. It’s been going on for 45 years now and is when Smith opens up the shops to the public. There he has a redware pottery facility, a blacksmith shop, a farm store and – of course – the furniture and finishing operations.
Plus there were a bunch of vendors selling antiques and new furniture. Plus alpacas to pet. Food trucks. And a band to entertain visitors. Smith himself was there, too, talking it up with customers and chatting about kitchens and furniture.
As Megan and I left the festival on Saturday, it struck me that I rarely hear many people mention his name or his book. And as I paged through the book this morning, I also have to admit that this book was a huge influence on me and stoked my love for vernacular pieces. And the designs have aged well during the last 35 years.
So let the record show: David T. Smith is someone I think you should get to know.
