I – and possibly Bean – will be on @bench.talk.101 today from 3:30-4:30 p.m. EST to talk about my enduring love for tool chests (and current obsession with the Dutch tool chest form in particular) and cats. You can join the conversation by clicking: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/81164688577?pwd=b1ZOOWgzQi9ZeExsVDYyWkJMNXdkQT09 at about 3:30.
Or click on the link in the @Bench.Talk.101 Instagram bio, which will appear 5 minutes before the meeting is about to start.
P.S. These meetings are recorded and published on the Bench.Talk.101 YouTube channel, so by joining the conversation, you are giving permission for the talk to be recorded and the recording to be made public for all to enjoy. You can watch previous episodes on the Bench.Talk.101 YouTube channel.
Whenever I take our dog, Joey, to the vet, he treats me to an ear-splitting performance of terror and woe. Just getting in the truck prompts panic; although I took him everywhere when he was a pup, he’s spent most of his adult life in the house, yard or shop. As a result, the truck has come to signify just one thing: that terrible destination where he gets poked, palpated and robbed of all agency. We turn from Woodyard Road onto Smith Pike and all hell breaks loose: the angry barks and plaintive cries, the look – part-imploring, part-accusatory. “Mom! NO! You CANNOT take me there! PLEASE! I won’t go! I can’t stand it! Turn around! MOM!!!” – all on repeat.
But I’ve always been struck by what happens as soon as I park the truck. His demeanor instantly shifts from avoidance-at-all-costs to single-minded resolution: OK then, let’s get this over with.
I thought of Joey last Thursday as I contemplated the pint or so of “Mochaccino Smoothie” barium sulfate suspension I was going to choke down between 7:30 and 8 the next morning (it turned out to be just fine, even if it would fall short of the expectations some might have based on the cup of foamy cappuccino and random chunks of chocolate that illustrate the label), followed about a half hour later by another 10 or so ounces, before driving to the local radiological center for a CT scan.
“How is it possible that I am doing this to myself?” I marveled, as I always do when facing a frightening medical procedure. I’m still the person who, as a 6- or 7-year-old kid with an extreme fear of needles, was struck one day at the doctor’s office by the realization that I had the power to walk right out the door. And so I did. As I recall, my mother and one of the nurses ran after me, but for those few moments the sense of agency was potent. It lasted until my mother informed me I’d have to swallow two pills the size of grenades if I wasn’t going to have the shot. (I still chose the pills, which we pulverized.)
Last Thursday, the urgency of my desire to know what was causing my vague but increasing abdominal discomfort shifted me into resolution. I thought of Joey. (It wasn’t the first time I’ve regarded a dog as an exemplar.)
I parked the truck, signed the consent forms and followed the technician through the labyrinth of offices, radiological suites and exam rooms to our destination, where I replaced my jeans with a pair of pants that would have fit John Candy and lay down on the table. The tech stuck an IV in my arm, not without some wincing from me, and described the sensations I should anticipate when the contrast medium went in.
After 42 interminable hours of waiting, my doctor called with the results: there was a mass on my pancreas, and it was likely malignant. The reading didn’t come as a complete surprise; this medical mystery tour had started with an abdominal ultrasound the week before that suggested reason for concern. The next step would be a biopsy.
The biopsy was performed at the Indiana University School of Medicine in Indianapolis, confirming the preliminary diagnosis. I never imagined I would write the words “I had a biopsy this morning (possibly the most pleasant endoscopic experience *anyone* has ever had – the nicest people, most respectful/non-paternalistic doctors, and totally pain-free procedure),” as I wrote to Chris Schwarz later in the day, but there you have it. I have an appointment with an oncologist next week to learn more and discuss where we might go from here.
My maternal grandmother died of pancreatic cancer. I’ve known others personally, as well as followed news of prominent people who have faced this diagnosis. I am well aware of its gravity, so please spare all of us any ominous warnings you may feel moved to share in the comments.
Why this post on a blog devoted to woodworking? For a start, woodworkers are people; all of us face devastating news at one time or another, and I’m not the first person to note that no one gets out of here alive. The more we acknowledge these Instagram-unworthy dimensions of life (despite their dampening effects on the kind of commerce that thrives on implicitly denying so much of what makes our lives truly worth living), the more responsibly we can act, and the better we can savor what life has to offer. Knowing you’re not alone in your experience is golden, whether of breast cancer or back surgery, sudden homelessness in the wake of a hurricane or fire, or having to choose between keeping your home above freezing and being able to purchase the medicine on which your life depends.
There’s also value in sharing honest appraisals of the experience for those who may come behind. As much as I dreaded yesterday’s endoscopy, I faced it with less fear than I would have, had I not heard about a friend’s experience of the same procedure. A frank assessment of how easy “Mochaccino Smoothie” barium sulfate is to swallow is no less valuable to anyone facing a similar procedure than an honest review of the SawStop slider to a woodworker with a relatively small shop.
Mostly, though, I would love the company of any readers who might like to be my companions in this adventure, which I would obviously have preferred not to have thrown in my path. (You can follow by subscribing here.) Many readers of this blog have become friends in real life; I also appreciate the back-and-forth I’ve enjoyed with some of you I haven’t yet met. Lost Art Press is home to thoughtful and intelligent readers from a variety of backgrounds, and I’m honored to be in your company.
It’s important to emphasize that despite the diagnosis, and apart from the abdominal discomfort, I feel fine. I seem to have no other symptoms – I have plenty of energy, even if the endless waiting and existential upheaval of the past two weeks has made it hard to focus on getting “real work” done. I plan to keep up the series of profiles categorized under “Little Acorns,” and I have a few design jobs, along with a wall of built-ins I have underway in the shop. We’ll go from there.
Larissa Huff, one of the instructors of online classes for A Workshop of Our Own.
Most readers of this blog will be familiar with A Workshop of Our Own (WOO), the Baltimore teaching and workspace established in 2017 by furniture maker Sarah Marriage with funding from the prestigious John D. Mineck Furniture Fellowship.
A desk by Sarah Marriage.
Along with other schools and ventures of all kinds that rely on in-person gatherings, WOO has faced serious challenges due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Sarah, WOO board members and other allies have come up with a response to keep the classes and camaraderie coming: a broadened reach of offerings online with “From WOO to You.” In the coming months, WOO will host a range of classes that are not only packed with information about tools and materials, and easy-to-follow instruction in skills, but taught by local and national instructors who are a lot of fun. There are basics such as “Understanding Wood” and classes to improve your precision and efficiency including “JIGS: Tools to Make Things Easy.” Inspired by Sarah’s recent experiments with carving in a different medium – pumpkins – there will also be seasonal offerings, such as “Fancy Pumpkin Carving.” (And if you think that fancy pumpkin carving sounds like fluff, think again. Sarah’s technique and designs are mind-blowing in their ingenuity – not that that should come as a surprise to anyone who knows her.)
One of Sarah’s carved pumpkins.
At $29 a pop for non-members of WOO and $25 for members, the classes are far more affordable than many online classes. One (or more) of the classes would also make an excellent gift for any woman and/or gender non-conforming woodworker/aspiring woodworker. (For those unfamiliar with WOO, it is a non-profit safe space for training underrepresented genders; enrollment is limited to women and gender non-conforming folks over the age of 18.) Each class is taught live but viewable for 30 days afterward.
You have Robin Lee of Lee Valley to thank for this. He reached out to us and made a special order of these books in an effort to get them in the hands of woodworkers who would appreciate them.
So if you’re in Canada, this is a great way to get this book shipped to you.
The SawStop sliding crosscut fence (on a SawStop table saw), with the fence extended to full length.
The most labor-intensive part of preparing for classes is, by far, the stock prep – especially for the tool chest classes I teach. For those classes, I crosscut pairs of ends, and pairs of fronts/backs, together so that they’re the same length. That was difficult with our old shop-made crosscut sled. When crosscutting the front/backs, more than half the length of them clamped together was unsupported, so I had to hold them both tight to the sled’s fence and down at the same time. (The only good thing about that was the upper-body workout.)
So Chris – exceedingly kind man that he is – bought (me) a sliding crosscut fence. We looked at a few other brands, but after talking to people who already owned one, we decided on the SawStop slider.
Right after the box arrived we shut down classes for 2020…so there will be no massive amounts of stock prep until there’s a COVID-19 vaccine. But in the meantime, we’ve had time to put the new slider through its paces.
The MDF sled above is the one we formerly used to crosscut wide materials – you can easily see the additional support offered by the slider, not to mention the adjustable flip stops.
Chris has set up five or six different sliding tables over the years, and he says this one was by far the easiest; he had it up and running in about an hour (my only contribution was helping to adjust the leveling feet – it’s really a one-person job). There’s the option to bolt the slider to the table saw’s wing, or to remove the wing and bolt it directly to the main table. But either way, you almost certainly have to cut the rip fence’s rail. I believe the instructions said to do that with a metal-cutting band saw. But Chris used a recip saw with a home-center carbide blade (you could also use a metal-cutting jigsaw blade), then he filed the cut edges; the cut took less than 5 seconds.
In all honestly, we don’t have the fence perfectly set above the table’s height; it rides up the bevel on the front edge of the table by maybe 1/32″ every time we push it forward. Not a big deal – it works fine, and you can’t hear the fence hitting that edge over the noise of the saw and dust collection anyway (and you get used to the feel of it after a cut or three).
You can see in this photo how the fence just barely grazes the bevel on the table edge as it’s pushed forward.
Among the nice things about this sliding table is that it can be pulled back far enough to allow us to stand in front of it for most rip cuts – which means we don’t have to take it out of square to get it out of the way for most rips.
The sliding fence pulled all the way back – plenty of room in front of it for a person, and for most rip cuts.
Getting this one back to square is a lot easier than on my JessEm Mast-R-Slide at home, which requires Allen wrenches to adjust the setting blocks. This slider locks in place not against a block, but in the T-track. So all you need is a framing square to set it square to the blade. Still, once you have it square, why move it unless you have to?
To adjust the fence, just loosen/tighten the knurled knob.
I’ve heard a few complaints about the flip stops on the fence slipping or bending, but I was taught to always gently push my stock again a stop, so I haven’t had any trouble with the stops losing their settings so far. I also had one person mention that if you have a substantial angle set, the end of the fence is far away from the blade. Ninety-nine percent of our cuts are at 90°, so we’ve not yet had to tackle that issue. I imagine that whomever has to make that first 45° cut will make an auxiliary fence that fits in the fence’s T-track.
One of the two flip stops.
In addition to the extra support and ball-bearing sliding action, what I like most is the flip stops. It used to be I would crosscut one end of all my stock, then clamp a stop to the sled to cut it to final length. I save a lot of time now by simply flipping the stop up to square one end, then flipping my stock, and putting the stop down to cut the second end. Heaven. I’m very much looking forward to finding out – hopefully in the near future – how much easier this new setup will make cutting stock for seven tool chests at a time!
