Catalan chair, c. 1950, original red paint. Photo from Antigues Matèries, Barcelona.
The Catalan variation of the of the post-and-rung chair has been traced back to the late19th century and is still made today. This native of Catalonia speaks to me; it whispers, “sit back and relax.”
As with its straight-backed relatives, these chairs were made with local woods and reed-woven seats. The chair back is inclined and typically has four slats. There are two rungs at the front and sides and one at the back. Two additional legs at the back provide thesupport for the inclined angle of the chair.The comfort of this vernacular chair is the inclined seat and the high and wide back.
Four views of another chair, c. 1930, photo from 1st Dibs.
Details include decorative turnings on the front post, especially at the base. Each chair that I’ve found has, for lack of a better term, a “beanie cap” turning at the top of the back post.
Detail of the “beanie cap” on the back post.
Salvador Dalí, native of Catalonia, owned armed versions of the six-legged chair at his home in Portlligat, Spain.
Dalí and Christine Argillet (daughter of Pierre Argillet, Dalí´s publisher) at Portlligat, Spain. Photo from Ms. Argullet via Richmond Magazine.
Rodríguez Aria (1902-1987) was a founding member of GATCPAC, a group of architects and technicians concerned with improving urban development and the quality of life in Barcelona. He was on the Republican side in the Civil War and eventually left Spain and exiled to Chile. He hadcharge of the interior design of Café Miraflores in Santiago de Chile, a gathering place for exiled Spanish intellectuals. His design for the café‘s chairs were a call back to the Catalan vernacular chair.
Germán Rodríguez Arias’ design for the Café Miraflores chairs, 1942. Photo from Mobles114.
Two editions of Rodríguez Arias’ chair.
The Catalana 1942 chair. Left: from Mobles114, Barcella. Right: the collection of Museu del Disseny, Barcelona.
This reimagining of the traditional Catalan six-legged chair is in line with the work done by Charlotte Perriand in the mid-1930s. After working with steel, she moved to the wooden vernacular furniture of her grandparent’s Savoie home as inspiration for her designs. I always think of these swings in design as a push and pull. There is a push to use new and modern materials, but the pull of the older design is always in the back of the mind.
Both the vernacular version and the Rodríguez Arias version of this chair are still made and, as one would expect, they are expensive.
Traditional Catalan chair, c. 1920 with brown-stained posts and rungs. Photo from Fenix Originals.
I wasable to get the measurements for four chairs dating from the 1920s to the 1950s (one of which is not pictured):
Height range: 88-100 cm (34.6-39.4 in.)
Width range: 48-50 cm (18.9-19.7 in.)
Depth range: 74-80 cm (29.1-31.5 in.)
Now, imagine sitting back in one of these Catalan chairs, preferably along the coast of Catalonia. The heat of the day has passed and as you sip from una copa de vi negre o una cervesa a light breeze surrounds you with the perfume of honeysuckle and orange.
Today begins the Twelve Days of Tooltide and a new song for all woodworkers.
This song will lift you from post-holiday doldrums and carry you, all bright and shining, into the first week of the new year. As with the making of dovetails, dowels for a stick chair or deciding which finish to apply to a table, the singing of this song requires commitment. Remember to reward yourself with a full glass of your choice of good cheer.
Tools by M. Roubo, pollisoirs by Mr. Don Williams and mallets by M. Diderot.
You can also read a woodworking take on the original bird in the pear tree here.
–Suzanne Ellison
p.s. Thanks to the person who brought a handmade hummingbird to Handworks and gave it to Megan to pass along to me. The little bird is lovely!
p.p.s Thank you for the very kind comments to my story “The Long Night” published on Thursday. I was up to my elbows in flour all day trying to finish holiday baking and couldn’t break away to respond.
Right after breakfast, Amelia helped Amos, her grandfather, bring in enough firewood to last for several days. Snow was expected in a day or two and he wanted to be prepared. Amelia loaded baskets into her grandfather’s old garden wagon and helped him unload and stack the wood inside the cabin. After several trips her grandfather said, “That’s good. Now, sit and rest and get your feet back under you.”
Just about mid-morning, Amelia was at the table with a book propped up before her. “How commited are you to that book? asked her grandfather. “Not much, “ she answered. “How about you go out and find me some crooks for spoons. Take the big path into the woods. After about a 10 minute walk you should see a patch where some branches came down a while ago. You know what to look for. When you get back we’ll go into town for lunch at the Thursday Market.” “Sounds good to me,” answered Amelia. She got her backpack and a big canvas tote. She grabbed a small axe and headed for the back door. “Have you got the axe?” he called. “Yep, got it,” she answered.
Amelia crossed the open field behind the cabin and stepped into the big path. Within a few minutes the woods were thicker and the light dimmer. Deep in these woods there were old-growth sections with enormous trees that were protected by law. She had not yet found the patch her grandfather mentioned, instead, she was at a point where the path forked, something she didn’t remember from previous walks in the woods. She took the right fork. The trees loomed above her and the wind came up. Amelia pulled up the hood of her jacket but the wind caught it. With her hand shielding her eyes she leaned forward and kept moving. The wind grew stronger and the light dimmer. The air was filled with debris. Tree branches creaked and squeaked as they moved with the wind. She stopped and the wind lessened as did the creaking. The squeaking, however, was louder than ever. She looked up and saw a gray squirrel scrambling down a giant white oak tree. It was doing the squeaking and it looked angry.
When the squirrel was almost at Amelia’s head height it stopped. It half squinted it’s eyes, pointed at her and yelled, “Drup that ass!” Puzzled, Amelia answered, “Drup my ass? Who are you to tell me to drup my ass? Wait, what does that even mean?” The squirrel dropped from the tree and bounded over to the top of a nearby boulder. It took a deep breath and said, “No asses! No asses!” Amelia also took a deep breath and, as she smacked one side of her butt, asked, “Well, squirrel, how am I supposed to walk without my ass?” The squirrel chipped and chucked and almost fell off the boulder. “Are you laughing at me?” demanded Amelia. “Yez!” came the answer between more chips and chucks.
The squirrel regained its feet, pointed at Amelia then pointed to his eye. “OK, you want me to watch, go ahead,” she answered. The squirrel put its paws together and moved its little arms up and down in a chopping motion. This was followed by it crossing its arms to form an X. Amelia watched closely and guessed, “No chopping? No chopping the trees?”The squirrel repeated the motions and finished this second try by pointing at Amelia’s right hand. She tried again, “No chopping, no,” she looked at her right hand and the light turned on, “no axes! No asses! No axes!” She bent over laughing and looked over to see the squirrel jumping up and down squeaking, “Yez!” Amelia put the axe in her backpack and as she did noticed the wind had stopped and the trees were still.
Looking at the squirrel, Amelia explained, “I came looking for wood for spoon carving. “Spoons?” questioned the squirrel. “Yes, wood for spoons,” replied Amelia. “Crooks. Come with me, Dummy,” instructed the squirrel. “Hey, my name is not Dummy! It’s Amelia!” she complained.
The squirrel led Amelia to an area where there were plenty of fallen branches. She was able to find several good crooks and some larger pieces that might work for carving bowls. After loading them into a big canvas tote she looked up to where the squirrel perched on a branch and said, “Thank you for showing me the way. I apologize for bringing the axe into the forest.” The squirrel nodded and pointed towards the path, “Time to go.” “Do you have a name?” she asked. The squirrel nodded. “What is it?” The squirrel tilted his head one way and then the other as though he was contemplating her question. Finally, he made a zipping motion across his mouth and took off up a tree. “You little devil!” Amelia yelled, followed by, “Oh!” as a large spray of pine needles landed on her head.
Amelia wasn’t sure what had just happened or if it had happened. She didn’t quite trust herself and her reactions to new things. She had been in a bad car accident in the spring and had a slow recovery. Her grandfather had invited her to spend a couple months with him to, as he put it, get her feet back under her. She was feeling stronger and more balanced since arriving at his cabin, but it was her head injury that caused her to doubt what she had experienced in the woods. She decided not to tell her grandfather about the squirrel.
As promised, her grandfather took her into town for their lunch and to visit the farmer’s market. After lunch, Amos went in search of some vegetables, while she headed to see Sarah, the basket maker. She found Sarah at her usual spot in the market and greeted her with, “I’ve got some sassafras for you, Sarah.” “You must have been reading my mind, Amelia girl!” exclaimed Sarah. “Just in time! A couple of people have been asking for my sassy baskets to give as Christmas and New Year gifts.” Sarah added the fragrant sassafras around the rim of baskets to make make them sassy and spicey, which happened to be a good description of Sarah herself. “Can you sit with me for a while?” asked Sarah. “Yes, of course and I want to hear all the gossip!” answered Amelia. They were close to the same age and Amelia had learned the rudiments of basket making from her new friend. Amos found the two of them with heads together giggling over something Sarah had just said. As Amelia and Amos left, he turned back and called to Sarah, “We’ll see you at Christmas dinner!”
By the time they arrived back to the cabin it was almost dark. “I can’t get used to it getting dark before 5 o’clock,” said Amelia. “It creeps up on you, doesn’t? Come on, let’s have an early supper. I’m thinking pancakes,” answered her grandfather. Over supper, her grandfather told her they had one more thing to do that evening. They were going into the woods. “Why? It’s dark and cold!” exclaimed Amelia. After the episode with the squirrel she wasn’t eager to go into the woods. “It the long night, the winter solstice, and it’s a tradition of mine,” answered her grandfather. “And, I think it will be good for you. So, dress warmly, we won’t be back until late.”
They left a couple of hours later. Amos pulled his garden wagon loaded with bags he had pulled from the root cellar. Her grandfather shrugged off her question about the bags with,“Amelia, sometimes you just have to go with the flow and see what happens.” As they crossed the field behind the house and were well away from any lights, Amelia looked up and exclaimed, “The stars are so clear tonight! There’s Orion and the Pleiades and Aldebaran!” “Wait until we come out of the woods later tonight. It will be even more spectacular,” answered Amos. “Come along, hold the lantern up. We’re almost at the path into the woods.”
Amelia held the lantern higher as they entered the woods. It was quiet and dark, very dark and she said so. “Amelia,” her grandfather started to say and she cut him off with, “I know, I know, go with the flow, I’m flowing, I’m flowing.” Amelia thought they were going to walk the entire network of paths until Amos stopped at a small clearing. Taking some wood from the wagon he lit a small fire in a pit. “Grandpa, is that allowed?” she asked. “There is no wind, it will be fine,” he answered. “Take the bags out of the wagon and put them near the sitting boulders. Then, grab one of the cushions, have a seat and get comfortable,” he directed. She did as she was told and waited for him to also take a seat before asking, “Now what?” He answered with, “Shhhh.”
Amelia waited. The quiet was broken by a scrabbling sound coming from a nearby tree. A few seconds later a squeaky little voice spoke from the boulder closest to her grandfather. “Good evening Amos, you brought Dummy with you.” Before her grandfather could say a word, Amelia jumped to her feet, pointed at the newcomer and exclaimed, “You! I wasn’t imagining you!” Then she turned to her grandfather, “You sent me into the woods this morning knowing I would meet him, didn’t you?” “Only if you entered the old part of the forest and were carrying an axe,” Amos replied. He was sitting on his boulder, arms crossed with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Amelia, please meet Wipunk, guardian of the old forest and my companion for our annual meeting on the long night. Wipunk, Amelia is my granddaughter.” Wipunk was dancing from foot to foot. “Amos, I made a mistake with the words today. I told Amelia no asses, I meant no axes. She thought I was nuts!” Amelia told Amos the details of the squirrel’s pantomime and Amos and Wipunk burst out laughing. She added, “I thought I was nuts.” Wipunk considered her for a moment and said, “It is okay to sometimes be nuts.”
Still looking at Amelia, Wipunk explained, “This is the long night and on this night we have a fire and we share food. Amos, what did you bring for the long night?” Amos started to open the canvas bags. “Acorns from white and red oak, hickory nuts, late-harvest apples and pears, a few berries, Catawba grapes and cabbage leaves,” he answered. “Cabbage?” queried Wipunk. “Rabbits and deer eat cabbage. Try some,” Amos answered and handed Wipunk a small piece. Wipunk took the cabbage and sniffed it, gave it a lick and took a small bite. “Not bad,” he announced. Amos handed a small bag of almonds to the squirrel. “I didn’t forget your almonds for the long night.” While Wipunk started on his almonds, Amos and Amelia spread the acorns and other goods outside the circle of boulders. As they did so, Amos explained, “By morning, all of this will be eaten or stored away.”
When they sat back down, Wipunk looked at Amelia. “The long night is also when we tell stories. Amos, Amelia should hear the the story of how you met my ancestor.” Amos had a strained look. He rubbed his face with one hand as though he was removing a protective mask. He looked at Amelia, his eyes sad. “I suppose I must,” he said. “Yez, Amos, you must,”replied Wipunk. Amos began, “It was twelve years ago, not long after your grandmother died. I was in a bad way.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Amos was struggling. His dear Anna had died several months before and he was bereft. The funeral, the visits by friends and neighbors, the memorials and the legal paperwork were finally done. He was alone and without her for the first time in over fifty years. His grief descended and held him for days.
Late one afternoon, he was sitting in his favorite chair looking across at her old chair andthought Anna would have told him to get outside and walk away his bad mood. “That’s what I’ll do!” he announced to the empty house. He got his backpack ready, grabbed his hiking stick and again announced, “I’m going outside!” Going out the back door, he walked through the garden and was about to started across the field when he stopped. A white-throated sparrow was under the laurel bush searching under some leaves. “When did you get here?” he asked. He looked around and realized he had not only lost his wife, he had lost the autumn. Although it had happened around him, he had not noticed the leaves turning colors then dropping, or the October arrival of the little sparrow from Canada. Normally, he paid close attention to the natural world and kept a journal filled with notes on animal life, what was eating which vegetable in the garden and the weather. “I have to get myself together. Anna would expect me to do better,” he said as he shook his head and started across the field heading towards the woods.
Walking through the woods always lightened his mood, but that afternoon felt different. Well, I haven’t been here in a few months, he thought. It seemed darker than it should be and he couldn’t find familiar landmarks or pathways. The further he walked, the more disoriented he felt. “Why is it so dark so soon?” he asked aloud. Further along the path he came upon a clearing. There was a small fire pit surrounded by a half-circle of small boulders. Amos sat down on a boulder, checked his watch and saw it was only half-past four. Looking around, he could still see the trees, but the light was closing fast and it was getting colder. Not knowing where he was made him think he might have to stay the night right where he was. The air was still and he thought it would be safe to have a small fire in the pit. He got to his feet and started gathering a supply of wood to keep a fire going.
The light and warmth from the small fire helped him feel a bit easier with his situation. He could relax a little, but not too much. Sitting cross-legged on a cushion of pine needles, he leaned back against the boulder. His growling stomach reminded him he had energy bars, nuts and water in his backpack. He opened a package of almonds and popped a couple in his mouth. As he started to take a few more from the bag he heard a small voice say, “What are you eating?” Without thinking, he answered, “Raw almonds, no salt.” The voice came again, “May I, please?” Amos snapped to. He wasn’t alone! In a panic he jumped to his feet and called, “Who are you? Where are you?” “I am over here, on the other boulder. May I have the almond?” came the answer.
Amos looked over and saw a gray squirrel perched on the furthest boulder. The squirrel had one paw extended waiting to be given an almond. “Did you just talk to me?” Amos demanded, then caught himself, “I’m hallucinating! Yes, I am hallucinating.” He plopped back on the pile of pine needles and started laughing at his situation. “I don’t know about that. May I have the almond?” asked the squirrel as he jumped to the next boulder in the circle. Thinking he would just go with the flow, Amos said, “Sure you can try an almond. Here, take a few.” He put several almonds on the boulder closest to the squirrel. The squirrel picked up one almond, sniffed it, licked it and then took a small bite. His little jaws working fast, he took another bite. Amos counted eight bites to eat the whole almond. “This is good,” said the squirrel as he took up a second almond. After eating a third almond, the squirrel turned to look directly at Amos and asked, “Are you here for the long night?” “Yes, it looks like I am here for the whole, long night,” replied Amos. The squirrel tipped his head to the side and replied, “This is the long night, are you here for long night?” Amos was about to repeat his previous answer when he stopped and said instead, “What do you mean the long night?” The squirrel explained, “This is the long night of the year that follows the short day of the year. On this day I can talk to you. On this night we have the fire and share food. It has been a long time since Old Joe came here for the long night.” By the time the squirrel finished his explanation Amos was wide-eyed and his mouth was hanging open in disbelief. Deep down, he really wanted, no, he needed, this squirrel to reassure him and asked, “So, I’m not seeing things and I’m not crazy?” he asked. The squirrel jumped to the boulder closest to Amos, leaned forward and with one little paw tapped Amos right on the nose, “You are not crazy, just a dummy!”
Amos laughed so hard he cried, then he sobbed until he was laughing again. The squirrel watched and helped himself to the bag of almonds. After Amos recovered, he introduced himself and asked the squirrel if he had a name. “I am Wipunk. The squirrel that can talk is named Wipunk. After we have more to eat and more talk I will show you the way out of the forest.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“And that is what he did,” explained Amos. “He showed me the way out. I would see him every time I went into the forest and he would acknowledge me by tossing an acorn or pine cone my way. I asked around and was able tracked down Old Joe, a former ranger. He was well into his 80s and in a nursing home. He spent about a quarter-century of long nights with several generations of Wipunks and he learned the word Wipunk is from the Lenape language and means gray. So, probably, the Lenape word for gray squirrel was somehow shortened to just gray. Old Joe thought there must be some kind of winter magic on long night, magic that made the barrier between humans and nature permeable.”
“Wipunk did one more thing for me that night. I was about to put another piece of wood on the fire when he stopped me. “No, keep that one for spoons,” instructed Wipunk. Old Joe was a spoon carver and Wipunk had learned how to choose a good crook. When I found Old Joe he was still carving spoons and he taught me the craft. The first spoon I made was from the crook Wipunk told me to save. It’s hanging above the stove.”
When Amos finished his story Amelia was very quiet. “I didn’t know you had such a bad time after Grandma Anna died,” she said. “You couldn’t have known, you were a young child,” replied Amos. He continued, “Now you know why the long night and Wipunk have such great meaning for me. It brought me back to myself and helped me become closer to the great healer, the natural world.” Amos reached into his backpack and took out two sandwiches. He handed one to Amelia and unwrapped one for himself. Sniffing the air,Wipunk pointed towards Amelia and asked, “Is that one peanut butter?” She tore off a corner off her sandwich and offered it to the squirrel, “Yes, peanut butter with grape jelly.” Wipunk tasted and then devoured the small piece of sandwich. “Oh, very good! Please bring some next long night, Amelia.” He added, “You will come the next long night?” “I wouldn’t miss long night here with you and Grandpa for the world!” she answered.
Soon it was time to go. They packed the bags into the garden wagon, put out the fire and started homewards. Wipunk rode in the wagon until they reached the edge of the woods. He jumped out and sprang up to the trunk of the nearest tree. Continuing up the tree he called out, “Good Night, Amos and Amelia!” “Good night, Wipunk!” they answered. As they cleared the tree line the sky opened up and they stood still, dazzled by the winter constellations.
“I proposed to your grandmother under a winter sky like this,” said Amos. “With Yeats,” he added. “You quoted Yeats to propose to Grandma!”laughed Amelia, “How did that go over?” “Well, it was the third time I proposed to her. I had to make it extra special,” he said. “When was the first proposal?” asked Amelia. “The last day of ninth grade. She threw her chewing gum at me and ran away,” he said laughing. “It took me a month to memorize the Yeats poem. Do you want to hear it?” he asked. “I sure do. Fire away!” she answered. Amos looked up to the sky and began:
“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
Amelia looked at her grandfather and saw he was deep in his memories of his Anna and she waited. Finally, he shook himself and said, “It’s cold! Let’s get home and warm up.”
The next morning a light snow was falling. Tired from the long night, Amos and Amelia took their time over their coffee. Looking out at the snow, Amos said, “One night, a couple ofmonths before my Anna died she told me she had been talking with the angels. It made me worry that she was starting to lose her mind. Now, I don’t think so.” “What changed your mind?” asked Amelia. Amos turned to look at her and had a big grin on his face. “I have been talking to a squirrel and so have you!”
Diagram and description of John Cram’s fan chair, 1786. American Philosophical Society.
The American Philosophical Society was founded in Philadelphia in 1743 by Ben Franklin to “promote useful knowledge.” Before the U.S. Patent Office was formed, one of the functions of the APS was as a repository for plans for inventions and devises for improving the human condition.
In 1786, Charles Wilson Peale, artist, soldier, scientist and member of the APS, sent a letter to Benjamin Rush with a diagram and description of a chair made for him by John Cram, an instrument maker. Peale’s letter, read to the Society in August 1786, described the chair as, “useful to the studious and others that are obliged to sit at their employment…to keep them cool…” The superstructure was wood and the fan was pasteboard.
The secretary’s notes for the meeting refer to John Cram as “an ingenious mechanic.” Not much is known about John Cram, other than he was an instrument maker. He was listed in a 1785 city directory with a shop on Lombard Street between Second and Third.
There are at least two fan chairs in existence, one at Mount Vernon, George Washington’s Virginia estate, and one in the New Haven Museum in Connecticut. Chair dated 1786-1800, Mount Vernon Collections, Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association.
The notes for the Mount Vernon chair state Washington purchased a fan chair in 1787 while he was in Philadelphia for the Constitutional Convention. The whereabouts of that chair are unknown, “but this version likely resembles the original.” The chair on display is dated 1786-1800 and the edge of the fan is decorated with a trailing vine.
The second chair, in the collection of the New Haven Museum, was owned by Dr. Eneas Munson. It is dated 1786-1790. The fan on Dr. Munson’s chair was painted to depict an eagle’s wing, “kidney-shaped fan, painted black with painted gold feathers.” Dr. Eneas Munson’s chair, 1786-1790. New Haven Museum.
The Mount Vernon Collection has a page for their fan chair and you can find it here. Under the photo of the chair is a link to a PDF with a full description of the chair’s construction and the fan mechanism (the website does not allow a direct link to the PDF).
He was deeper in the forest than he would normally venture and felt a sense of unease in this unfamiliar wood. The weak daylight of late October was fading away, and he didn’t see the tree stump until it was too late. He caught his foot on the stump and fell hard onto the cold ground. As he got himself up he saw the trunk of a tree and several logs scattered nearby. Not seeing any markings identifying the logs as belonging to the King, he packed them on his sled and, with a a sore ankle, made his way home.
As he came through the door of their small cottage he saw his young daughter tending to a small kettle hanging over the fire. She turned toward him and exclaimed, “Papa, you’re home! Jacob and his grandfather came by this afternoon, and we are having rabbit stew for our supper!” He was relieved they would have a hot meal and felt ashamed he wasn’t providing for her as he wished. He smiled at his little girl and saw how much her eyes were like her mother’s and her smile like his. She continued, “Jacob’s grandfather asked if tomorrow you could help him repair their roof.” “Yes, of course I can. I’ll head over first thing in the morning,” he replied.
After their supper he spread a heavy cloth on the floor in front of the fire. He brought the logs over to examine them in the light. The bark was smooth and dark with a scattering of bumps. The edges were not fresh, and the weight of the logs indicated they had probably been cut a season or two before. He trimmed one end of a log, saw the wood was a pure white and was fairly certain this was holly. On two of the larger logs he could just make out that each had been incised with an ‘Θ.’ This was strange as trees and lumber for the King’s use were marked with white paint. He ran one finger over an ‘Θ’ and with a sharp intake of breath quickly pulled his hand back. Had he been stung by a wasp? His finger stung and bled and he saw a splinter lodged in his fingertip. “I hope you have no more surprises for me,” he said to the log. “A sore ankle and now a finger. That’s quite enough mischief from you.” He gathered a few tools from a small chest in the corner and started to process the logs. He thought there would be more than enough wood to make a small table.
The table would be plain, nothing fancy, a place to have their meals together. His daughter could set out her sewing, sort the herbs she used for cooking and they could play games. It would make their home more comfortable. Before he knew it, his daughter was saying good night and climbing the ladder to the loft where she slept. A few hours later he had the stock he needed. He cleaned and put away his tools. Tomorrow, he would try to match the wood to make a pleasing pattern on the tabletop.
The next day he helped his neighbor repair his roof and a stable wall. His daughter helped in the garden and kitchen. In return, they came home bearing fresh bread, pots of berry jam, a basket full of vegetables and a couple more rabbits. That night they had a merry time over their supper.
After supper, he sat back in an old upholstered chair, the last piece of furniture they still had from their old home in the city. Although the cottage was warm his body kept a memory of the cold day. His face stung from the sharp wind and his hands were sore. Well, he thought as he sat up, I can at least sort and match the stock for the tabletop. After a few tries he called his daughter over. “What do you think?” he asked. Yawning, she came to take a look. “That will make a fine table,” she said and asked, “How will you remember which pieces of wood go where?” “I’ll make a special mark to help me match them again when the pieces are glued and put in the clamps,” he explained. “A special mark? Is is magic? Can I see it?” she asked. “No magic and you can see it tomorrow morning. Now, get to bed and Good Night!” he answered.
With the matched pieces laid out on the floor he drew the cabinetmaker’s triangle. To the unfamiliar eye, it looked like a fancy triangle with a center line and some loops. To him, it was a enjoyable reminder of another time. When he was first introduced to this method of marking wood he thought it was magic, and in saying so, received a smack on the back of his head from his master. Sitting back on his heels he laughed at the memory and said aloud, “I said it back then and I’ll say it again, it does look like a witch’s hat.” He glued the wood together and set the clamps. That done, he sat back in the old padded chair with his feet toward the fire. He dozed.
“You were not wrong, it is a witch’s hat,” said a low and dusky voice. He woke with a start. “Who said that? Show yourself! We have nothing worth stealing!” His eyes cleared and the room seemed smoky, but not from the fire. The clamped wood for the tabletop seemed to move. The point of the cabinetmaker’s triangle tipped outward as it would if someone were about to rise from a seated position. His eyes cleared, and he saw the entire mark lift out and up from the wood. On either side of the mark two long-fingered hands emerged and appeared to push away from the wood as a shimmering figure formed in front of him. He saw a woman with long, black hair wearing a gray gown. The air around her moved like a veil making it difficult to see her features. He stood up and saw she was almost as tall as he. “Who are you and what do you want? How did you get in?” he demanded. She laughed at him, “You just saw me come hat-first out of the wood. I am released!” She flung her head back and twirled around causing the air in the room to swirl around her.
“What are you?” he asked. “Oh, I was ‘a who’ and now ‘a what.’ How rude!” she remarked. “Answer the question!” he demanded. “As you can see, I’m wearing the hat and I am a witch.” She twirled around once more. Stepping closer to him she raised her hand and pointed one long finger toward him. He could now see her face. It was thin with high cheekbones and flat, black eyes. Her lips were full; her chin came to a rounded point. “Like what you see?” she teased. He thought she was repulsive and answered, “Not in the least.” Moving a step closer, she extended her hand and with a long, black fingernail gave a sharp tap to his chest. “Oh, that is too bad,” she said with pouted lips. “You,” she continued with a low laugh, “drew the mark and released me from the holly.” Stunned, he stepped back and almost stumbled. “That’s impossible!” he countered. “Holly is used to ward off witches not conjure them!” “For me, the holly was used for another purpose. It took the power of six wizards to bind me. They locked me into the holly to prevent my escape. I was legendary,” she explained with a note of pride in her voice. In a much lower and anguished voice she added, “It was agonizing.”
“When did this happen, how long were you in the holly?” he asked, not that he would believe anything she said. “In your measurement of time, about 200 years. The tree was marked with a warning to never cut it down. It seems someone forgot,” she explained. He didn’t want to know what she had done to be magically bound and locked in the holly. He thought about the two marked logs. “That’s why,” he started to say and stopped. “Why, what?” she asked. “It was almost dark when I found the logs and didn’t see any markings. Later, I saw that two of the logs had a mark carved into the wood, a circle with a line in the middle.” “Ohh, too bad for you and too good for me!” she laughed and added, “That is an old symbol meaning death and a warning to stay away from the tree. It seems it was ignored.” “Or not recognized to be a warning. I’ll take the wood back to the forest in the morning,” he replied and wondered to himself where would he find more wood.
“The wood is fine. Now that I’m released the wood is harmless, well, harmless to you. I never again want to see a holly tree. Make your table,” she said and turned to look around the cottage. He watched her touch and turn a few objects before she turned back to him. “As you released me from the holly I am required to give you payment,” she started to explain. He quickly cut her off, “I don’t want anything! Just go and leave us alone!” he responded. “By us, you mean you and your young daughter? If nothing for you, what would you like for your daughter? It’s a dangerous world for young girls. I can protect her and make sure she is happy,” she offered. He shuddered at her words. “We want nothing of your witchcraft! I won’t make a deal with you! Go!” he shouted. She had seen this reaction from ungrateful humans many times before and was non-plussed. She drew herself up and looking him straight in the eyes said, “Have it your way, for now. I will see you 20 years from this night, and on that night you will thank me. And, I promise to curse you!” Then, she was gone. The air cleared and the tension left his body. He sat heavily in his chair and slumped back. What had just happened?
The next morning he woke with a start and rushed over to the clamped wood. The cabinetmaker’s triangle was still there, but the lines were smudged and not as sharp as when he first drew them. Before starting work on the table he cut pieces of holly and went outside to nail some over the cottage door and each window. Over the next few days he worked the wood and made the table. With the table finished, he returned to the forest and brought back more wood from the fallen tree. He used the holly to make tall cases for either side of the fireplace. And, he kept track of the years by making a small mark on the highest shelf of the case closest to his chair.
When others saw the kind of work he could do he was asked to make tables, chairs and chests. With each job he was able to buy wood and no longer needed to scrounge in the forest. Years later, when his daughter married, the holly table was part of her dowry. On the day his daughter and new son-in-law drove away with their wagon loaded with the holly table and other furniture he had made, he tied several small holly branches together and handed them to his daughter. “Remember,” he started to say. “Yes, Papa,” she smiled and continued, “nail one sprig above the front door and above each window. We won’t forget!”
Days before the 20-year mark, he pulled an old blanket chest before the fireplace. Every few years he and his daughter would decide which piece of furniture could use a new coat of paint or a new design. The blanket chest was a faded blue with white, red and yellow flowers dancing across the top. He ran his hand over the flowers, remembering when his daughter painted them. He pictured her little face serious with concentration and the tip of her tongue just sticking out. Oh, I can’t paint over her flowers, he thought, it will have to be something else. He looked around and his eyes settled on the tall case by the fireplace. You’re next, he thought, but not tonight, I’m too tired.
He was in the cottage the night that marked 20 years since the witch had first appeared. The tall case was propped up on two sawhorses and he was removing the shelves. Still undecided on which colors to use he had placed several paint pots and brushes to the side. With the shelves out he sanded a few rough spots. The room cooled, a faint whiff of smoke stirred in the air and he knew she was about to arrive. Suddenly, she was in front of him. Her hair was no longer black, rather the gray of weather-beaten wood. Her face was thinner, almost skeletal, and her eyes held great malevolence. He thought she must have done terrible things to have gained that degree of evil. “Oh, I see you are still busy making things! What is it?” she asked as though this was any normal evening and she had just popped in for a friendly visit. Her voice was still low, its dusky tone replace by a creak. “It’s a case to store things. I took the shelves out before freshening up the paint,” he answered. “Well, that sounds like a dull job,” she remarked in a flat voice.
“Would you like a drink? A brandy?” he offered. “Yes, please. It would be welcome on this cold evening. After that, as I told you 20 years ago, you can thank me,” she answered. While he poured the drinks she looked around the cottage and asked about his daughter. “As you well know, she is fine. I heard an old woman would occasionally stop by and ask for a drink of water. There were also times when I was told about strange happenings, such as the ground around her cottage being perfectly dry just after a heavy rain. You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice steely. “Oh, there was no harm, just making sure she was happy and healthy.” she replied. “So, she doesn’t owe you anything?” he asked. “No, well, maybe just a little bit,” she said as though she was teasing. He knew better. She had come to collect something she wasn’t owed.
They each had a second brandy followed by another. He smiled, leaned back and hummed a tune he had recently heard at a wedding. “I like that, what it it?” she asked. “A country dance tune, do you want to dance?” he asked and stood waiting for her to join him. He took her hands and swung her around and around in smaller circles until he had her in his arms. She threw her head back and laughed. His arms tightened a bit around her. “What are you doing?” she gasped. “Dancing, just dancing,” he smiled back at her and held her closer. “You go too far! I will curse you!” she warned, “I will curse you to oak!” He laughed at her, unfazed by her threats, “Oak? A good, strong wood.” He looked down into her eyes, challenging her, and she saw he had no fear of her. She hissed. In moments, he felt the back of his neck tighten, followed by his shoulders and arms. He watched, fascinated, as his arms became wood bringing her tighter against his chest. She twisted frantically and demanded to be let go. He looked down at her, “I can’t, and now you are coming with me.” She screamed and struggled as the his oaken arms slowly squeezed her. His legs heavy, he lurched toward the tall case and leaned so as to tip them into it. Her screams grew more strident. “It’s holly!” she shrieked and writhed in agony. “Yes, holly from your old trees and, thank you,” were the last words he spoke before he turned entirely to oak and she to holly.
Her father had been in poor health in the last month, and she worried he was not eating enough. She entered the cottage, feeling the cold and saw the fire was out. Stepping forward, she called out to her Papa. Another step took her to the edge of the tall case. She remembered when they had painted the cases. They had just finished when, laughing, he had said, “When my time comes remove the shelves and use my case as a coffin, but please repaint it! This rose-red will not do!” Through her tears she looked down at him and promised, “Oh, Papa, I will paint your coffin your favorite blue.” She leaned closer and stroked and kissed his cheek. His mouth was curved in a half smile and a small holly log was clutched tightly to his chest.