Lost Art Press

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Behold the Six-legged Catalan Chair

Posted on by saucyindexer
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 late 19th 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 the  support 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 had charge 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 was  able 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.

–Suzanne Ellison

 

Recommended: the Nakashima ‘Process Book’

Posted on by Lost Art Press

It’s a bit difficult to put a label on this book. It’s not really a catalog of the pieces produced by Nakashima Woodworkers, but it is filled with drawings and images of the pieces the company makes. It’s also a short history of the workshop, a close explanation of how they work and a sometimes-lighthearted look back at George Nakashima’s life and work.

Called the “Process Book” and written by Mira Nakashima, this 2023 book is unlike any other book I have encountered in my career as a publisher and a woodworker.

The book is a deconstruction, showing you its structure like a wedged through-tenon or visible dovetails. When you first unwrap the book, it looks like it has a dust jacket. But when you open the jacket, you find that the jacket comes off and unfolds into a large poster. One one side is a photo of George Nakashima and on the other are construction drawings. 

The book block has no boards or paper cover. Instead it is like looking at a component from a pressroom. The spine of the book shows the thread running through the signatures. And the glue that reinforces the signatures. You can see clearly the registration marks from the press (usually obscured) that guide the bindery as they assemble the book block.

And while there is no formal “cover,” the pages of the book are protected by heavy printed end sheets.

Once you start exploring the interior of the book, there are more surprises, including large fold-out sections and gorgeous photography displayed on premium uncoated paper.

The whole experience is much like experiencing a piece of well-made furniture. First you see the form – it’s a book. But as you get closer and interact with the piece you come to understand it was made with incredible care and it gives up its secrets slowly but inevitably.

If you love the work of George Nakashima and his daughter, Mira, this book is essential reading. The book is filled with sketches of the pieces the shop sells, plus many archival images and drawings that aren’t shown in George Nakashima’s “Soul of a Tree.”

The book details the process of building a piece of furniture for both the customer and the workers. It explains with great clarity how wood is chosen for each piece of furniture in a way that helps determine the final design of the piece.

And as you work your way through the book, folding and unfolding and marveling at this detail or that curious drawing, you become an active participant in the creation of the book. After you are done with the text, you put it all back together again. And there it is, the form you started with.

The book ships with a current price list (always interesting). “Process Book” is a delightful piece of work. And at only $35, it’s a steal for printing and binding of this caliber.

— Christopher Schwarz

Send ’em to Coventry

Posted on by Lost Art Press

With the addition of Kale Vogt to our staff at Lost Art Press, I have been pondering the meaning and implications of the word “apprenticeship.” 

For me it is a real thing. Apprenticeship requires papers that lay out an agreement. Something like: I will do this. You will do that. And in the end, this is where we will be.

I bristle at people who use the term “apprenticeship” in a casual way. As if it were something that could be completed in a few weeks or months of training. That’s not the way I see it. After traveling and teaching in Germany for the last 15 years, I have developed a respect for their system. 

There are rules. And following them (or not) ends with opportunities (or problems). 

And while I believe in the system, I am a bit shy about its terms. I would never use the word “master” to describe a person unless he or she possessed a meisterbrief. Even then, the word “master” is problematic in America because of its association with slavery.

And then we have the word “journeyman.” What about the women who have been engaged in the trade for centuries?

All this is to say: I want to train Kale in a traditional way without traditional labels. What does that mean exactly? Stay tuned.

On the Abuse of Apprentices
The other aspect of apprenticeship that is troubling is the abuse. I know that Jane Rees is working on a book on woodworking apprenticeships, and I hope she will find examples where the apprentices were treated with respect and honor.

However, most of the old sources I know of paint apprenticeship as time of abuse and manipulation.

Then there’s the alcohol.

One of the books in our library is a doozy: “The Philosophy of Artificial and Compulsory Drinking Usage in Great Britain and Ireland” (1839). It was published by the teetotalers of the time and was an account of how alcohol was used to control and wreck the working people of the United Kingdom.

What is “drinking usage?” It is a social or business norm where drinking is required. You enter a shop as an apprentice, so you must pay a “footing.” The payment is used in drink for your shopmates. You are taught to dovetail and therefore must pay another fee in alcohol to learn that skill.

What if you refuse to pay? You are sent to “Coventry.” When a worker is sent to Coventry, no one will help them with their work, answer questions or even acknowledge them. And if the poor sod complains to the owner of the shop, then the fees and abuse are doubled.

For the last few days, I have revisited “The Philosophy of Artificial and Compulsory Drinking Usage in Great Britain and Ireland” and pulled out some of the more interesting accounts of what happened to apprentices in Scotland, Ireland and England.

Settle in, because this will probably stop any historical fantasy of traveling back in time to become Duncan Phyfe’s apprentice. We start in Scotland.

Scotland
Scarcely has the stripling commenced his apprenticeship, in some towns, to the business of the joiner or cabinet-maker, than he is informed that the custom of the shop is to pay a sum as an entry, or footing, to be disposed of in drink by the workmen.

He receives charge of the fire in the premises; and at every failure of kindling, mending, or extinguishing at night, he is fined in a small sum, to be expended in whisky: failure in putting out candles at the proper time, or in watching the work at meal-hours, and a number of other petty offences, are met by small amercements for the same purpose.

A journeyman carpenter, in a town north of the Forth, having declined to pay the customary drink-money, found one morning his tools removed.

He received no satisfaction, but in about three months they were found in the side of a dunghill, which was being taken away for agricultural purposes.

Interestingly, at this time, it was unthinkable to drink alone (except in America).

In Scotland there still exists a loathing terror, even in the regular drunkard, at being considered a solitary drinker; and, but for the amazing number of drinking usages, (so convenient for Scotch topers) this would be an element of transcendent usefulness in temperance reformation.

A cabinet-maker assured me, that such as would not comply with the drinking usages in the shops in which he had wrought, were outlawed (the same as being put into ‘Coventry’); that pieces of wood were thrown at them by their fellows, and that their tools were hid as frequently as possible, to make them comply. Another cabinet-maker informed me that his slippers had been frequently nailed to the floor in front of his bench, during his absence at meals, because he would not regard the oppressive usages of his trade.

There is a bailie in the shop in which he works, and when a court is to be held, the ‘hold-fast’ is used as a bell, to summon the men to attend.

Ireland
Not surprisingly, many of the same abuses occurred in Irish shops. 

Although the habit of taking a dose of whisky in going to work, technically called a “morning,” be not in general compulsory, yet it is rendered somewhat of this character, when the custom of treating in reference to the morning dram has obtained in any workshop.

And apprentices had it the worst.

If the apprentice be dilatory in coming forward with the footing, the men will show him nothing of the business; if he ask a question, they will “shy the answer;” they will cease to teach, and the master not being always present, the boy will remain untaught: this circumstance is what weighs most with parents, and even widowed mothers will stretch every nerve to provide for the apprentice footing.

And it wasn’t just the apprentices who were abused. The suppliers who sold glue or other materials to the shop were also pressed for alcohol.

Those dealers that supply a workshop with articles necessary in the trade, find it absolutely requisite to treat or “mug” the men, otherwise they will complain of the items supplied; thus in the trade of nails, wood, putty, and other articles, lovers of drink have it in their power in various ways to deprive sober men of their place or job, by false complaints, and oblique hints. We shall often have occasion to notice this circumstance.

The iron of the plane is sometimes glued to the wood for non-compliance with drink usages.

The workshop rules extended to every aspect of life, even to the appearance of the workers in the shop. You had to show up to work looking clean and tidy.

“When a man comes to work with a dirty shirt on Monday morning, he incurs a drink fine.”

But even if you do everything correctly, you are going to be fined. And the price to be paid is in alcohol.

When an apprentice comes to be able for man’s work, he is set to a bench and assumes the apron; on this occasion he is fined 1 shilling for drink: when his apprenticeship expires he pays 10s. 6d., which is called “washing him out.” When the apprentice remains in the same shop, he is “washed in,” by 10s. 6d. of a journeyman’s footing. For the first new job he is set to perform, which he has never done before, he pays 1s. for drink; thus for his first chair, bedstead, or veneer work, and this for each new job. When married, a cabinet-maker pays 10s. for drink. Having a child produces a quart of whisky. At each fall of the year there is a way-goose. Teaching any part of the business that is new to the scholar, requires 1s of a drink premium: this is severe on the boys.

What if you cannot pay? What if your family is poor and your friends are penniless? Well, it’s not good.

When a poor boy is unable to pay these demands, and his friends are backward in advancing him the needful funds, he is put under severe discipline; besides being taunted and jeered at continually, he is subjected to a process of coercion denominated “cabbing,” which is so administered as to make it impossible to discover the perpetrators. A favourable opportunity is watched, the lad is approached behind by a man having the cloth that covers finished furniture in his hand; this is dexterously thrown entirely over the head and shoulders; several spring upon him, and by their help the cloth is wound round the culprit’s head in such a way as to prevent sight: his hands are then tied, and he is laid on his face along a bench, his shoes are taken off, and he is sharply beat on the soles of the feet with a flat board. 

And there are fines for all manner of small workplace infractions.

When tools are not kept in the right place, there is 3d. or 6d. charged as a drink fine; 6d. for a long beard, or dirty shirt. “Wetting of new clothes;” this is a cant phrase for a libation of liquor on obtaining anything new. The new occupation of a favourite bench costs a quart of whisky at least; sometimes more, for the highest bidder gets the prize: this may be a station near the window, or otherwise particularly convenient. 

Glueing the pockets, and tying things to coats, are also tricks imposed on recusants of the usages.

And then there is the talking of the smack. If you engage in insulting other workers, you could be put to trial. 

Speaking ill of a shopmate in a public-house, incurs a fine. That all fines may be duly enforced, proceedings of the nature of process or action at law is established. The oldest hand is styled the father of the shop; he presides in the judgment and infliction of these fines. The case is regularly stated, the accused afterwards makes his defence, he is then sent out, and a decision is come to. I have understood that occasionally there is an extraordinary exhibition of native talent at these opportunities. To ring the holdfast is to strike a tool that will emit a sound, in order to convene a court. It is rung three times on a charge against any man. 

The book then details the same sort of charges against English shops (though the author cuts the English shops some slack because the author is clearly English). But after reading more than 300 pages of this account – biased as it was – I’ve decided not going to fine Kale for… well… anything. 

Like many people learning a trade, Kale observes the activity in the shop and tries to emulate. Megan and I put our tools away every day. Kale puts their tools away every day. We clean up after ourselves at the end of each day. Kale does the same.

I suspect we’ll never have to send Kale to Coventry.

— Christopher Schwarz

The Twelve Days of Tooltide

Posted on by saucyindexer

Good tidings and joy! 

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.

The Long Night

Posted on by saucyindexer

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 and  thought 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 of  months 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!”