I am not shy about my love of my Blue Spruce chisel roll. Not only is it exactly what I want and need in a chisel roll, it’s also made by Dave Jeske’s daughter Hannah.
Last time Hannah broke out her sewing machine and made chisel rolls, it was to raise money for a school trip. This time, she’s more ambitious: She is helping fund her college costs. Hannah is a double major in communications and theater and “hopes to be on Broadway someday,” Jeske says.
So now is the time to order. The chisel and marking tool rolls are now live on the Blue Spruce web site here. There are four sizes of chisel rolls and three for marking tools. They are well-made, durable and lightweight. I carry mine everywhere I travel – it has seen more wacky hotels than my family members. And when the rolls are gone, they are gone (until Hannah comes back from school perhaps).
By the way, Jeske didn’t ask me to write this blog entry. He’s too low-key. When Jeske and I were hanging out at the Lie-Nielsen Open House last weekend the topic came up. I insisted on a public service announcement.
At my first newspaper job, I hated the 2 p.m. mail call. That was when Reese Fant would separate all the day’s mail into the black cubbyholes for the reporters. More days than not, I received a postcard.
The postcards were from a retired high-school English teacher, and just about every day she had some withering comment to make about my grammar, word choice, style (or lack of it).
I hated those postcards at first.
I think you know where this story is going, but I think you’re wrong. The natural story arc is for me to recognize the importance of word precision and embrace the subtleties and nuances of the English language and become an evangelist for its proper use.
Truth is, I hated those postcards at first, and within a couple years I came to absolutely loathe them. In fact, I actively rejected my fine Northwestern University-honed journalism education to write in a coarser style to see if I could cause this retired teacher to burst a blood vessel.
I know this sounds messed up from a person who trades in words, but I am far more interested in meaning over the veneer of style.
This attitude was reinforced when I was introduced to the world of professional cabinetmakers. Before my first photo shoot with one of them, I can remember studying everything I could about the joinery nomenclature that was particular to fine cabinet work.
The next day, here is what I learned.
1. Everything is a “rail.” Table aprons? Rails. Leg stretchers? Rails? Mediary stiles? Rails. Muntins? Rails. Mullions? Again, rails. And on and on. Rail, rail, rail. Did this diminish his work? No. Did it diminish my understanding of his work? No, again.
2. Everything is a “groove.” Dado? Nope, groove. Rabbet? Bzzst! Groove. Cross-grain rabbet (a fillister?). Groove again. A long mortise? Yup, a groove.
3. Every operation is “run.” Crosscut? No — run a cut. Rip? Run that to 7”. Mould an edge? Run the edge? Cut the tenon? Run the tenon. Run was the only operation. And when you make furniture for a living, you have to run, period.
Why am I telling you all this?
Today I read an interesting book, “The Wrought Covenant,” from the Brockton Art Center, which was recommended to me by Peter Follansbee. It’s a gold mine of information on early furniture, but one of the essays had the following statement:
“We should further the retrieval of a proper seventeenth-century furniture typology by referring even to the individual parts of each form as much as possibly by their correct period name and placement; if we are to enter the craftsman’s world and his community aesthetic, we must learn their organization from his point of view, not ours.”
This stuff really makes me crazy. On the one hand, using words in a precise manner makes it easier to talk about things across a distance, such as when using the Internet. On the other hand, the language divides us. We discount people who haven’t learned the precise words for a haunch or a bolection.
Well, screw that.
If the meaning is clear, we are cool. Period. If the work is solid, we are cool. I am not silently correcting your grammar or word choice. I don’t give a poo if you don’t call it a dado or a micro-bevel or a “land.” In the end, anyone who becomes immersed in the craft will get the hang of the lingo. But until then, to quote one of the best movies ever, “Lighten up Francis.”
Anyone who has been to my shop knows that I have a deep affection for the handplanes made by Wayne Anderson. His planes perform as well as any I have ever used – no matter the price – and his aesthetic matches mine.
Wayne’s planes are inspired by the gorgeous work of the past, but he doesn’t copy old designs, and he never seems to make the same plane twice.
I first became aware of Wayne’s work about 10 years ago through the Mid-West Tool Collectors Association, and I followed it closely until I had the guts to meet him at a tool meet in 2004. After seeing his work in person, I placed an order for an improved miter with an ebony infill.
That tool was the first of several planes that I’ve asked him to build for me. They are, without a doubt, the most gorgeous things I own.
Because of my former position at Popular Woodworking Magazine and my many blabberings about handplanes, I get asked the following question every week or two: Are infill planes worth the money?
The answer is difficult. I can make a Lie-Nielsen, Veritas, Clifton or vintage Stanley plane perform as well as an infill. But infill planes have a set of characteristics unique only to them that I like. For example, my favorite infill is short (5-5/8” long x 1-7/8” wide), coffin-shaped, has a high-pitched iron (60°) with no chipbreaker or blade adjuster. In other words, it’s a lot like an old wooden plane. But unlike a wooden plane, it has significant mass and a steel sole that never needs to be trued.
It is far more comfortable to hold than a No. 2-sized Bailey plane. And its mass isn’t so significant that it feels like you are pushing a collapsed star across your bench. It weight 2 lbs. 2 oz., which is between the Lie-Nielsen Nos. 1 and 2. It’s perfect for my style of general furniture work.
The plane I’m describing is a small ebony-infilled plane that Anderson made for me in 2006. I call this my “plane of last resort” because it just refuses to leave tear-out in its wake, no matter how sharp or dull the tool is.
In fact, the tool needs to come with a warning label. If you pick it up and use it, you will want one. Just ask Megan Fitzpatrick or any of my students who have casually picked it out of my tool chest. Larry Williams of Old Street Tool calls this phenomenon “Infill Disease.” Larry is fully recovered from the affliction. I, however, am not.
So yes, having an infill in your tool chest is a nice thing. Plus, regardless of how it performs, it’s nice to own something handmade – a feeling that many woodworkers, my family and customers share.
As those of you who have read “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest” know, I sold off or gave away most of my tools a couple summers ago, and the infills I had collected for review in Popular Woodworking and The Fine Tool Journal were no exception. Those tools are now in the hands and tool chests of good friends and comrades.
But there are a couple infills that I would never even consider parting with. One is the small smoother from Wayne. The other is a small boxwood miter from Raney Nelson.
What is it about this smoother that makes me so attached to it? Well, beyond its size and perfect weight, it’s the details that Wayne pours into every tool. The mouth of the tool is made in two pieces, like an infill miter plane, which ensured that the plane’s throat aperture is just slightly bigger than the shavings. Also, Wayne files a small (1/16” x 1/16”) bevel on the front edge of the sole. This is a modification I make to my own planes, through with much less precision and style. The bevel protects the sole from damage when you run into something hard (nail, knot etc.). The bevel takes the damage and – generally – prevents the damage from then scarring your work.
But beyond these functional characteristics, the tool is just a joy to look at and use. The tombstone shape of the top of the 1-1/2”-wide iron. The perfectly pillowed ebony infills. The lines of the sidewalls, lever cap and ivory nipple (there’s no other word I’m afraid) on the screw.
I also like the patina the tool has developed during the last six years. I was actually a little ticked off when a photographer burnished off the patina a few years ago to make it look shiny and new. I had to start over.
In any case, I had a long-overdue chat with Wayne last week about some web-site stuff and he mentioned that his lead times have dwindled this year significantly. While you used to have to wait two years for Wayne to get to your tool, he’s now only about a month out on orders.
So if you’ve ever wanted a Wayne Anderson plane, now is a great time. Drop him an e-mail at wayne@andersonplanes.com.
You might have to get in line behind me. My conversation with Wayne reminded me that I was going to get him to build me a Roman-style plane to test a few theories I have about early Western woodworking.
While visiting blacksmith Peter Ross’s shop last week I couldn’t resist asking him to make me two pairs of dividers that are dead ringers for the dividers shown in Joseph Moxon’s “Mechanick Exercises” (1678) and the logo of Lost Art Press.
The dividers are, like all of Peter’s work, stunning. Their movement is smooth and sufficiently stiff. If they do loosen up with use, that can be retightened by striking the ball at the top with a flat-face hammer with the dividers resting on an anvil.
The dividers are $125 each if you are interested in obtaining some for your tool chest.
Peter has also been working on some hardware for “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest.” Shown are the hinges, which Peter designed to merge parts of a chest hinge and a butt hinge. I’m going to install them on the chest I’m building at home now and see how they function. Next up: Peter is going to make a crab lock for the chest.
OK, if you will excuse me I have to go make some more money to pay for this stuff.
