Yes, I do overcut my pins when cutting half-blind dovetails. (An answer to a question I am sometimes asked.)
Just a gentle reminder – or announcement for those of you who are new here – that six Saturdays a year, we hold “Open Wire” hours from 8 a.m.-5 pm. That’s the place to post any and all woodworking questions to get them answered by us and by your fellow readers. I’m afraid we don’t have time to answer questions that come in via other channels – if we did that, it would leave no time for editing and writing, much less woodworking!
So if you send a question via email (to any of my emails…I got woodworking questions at more than one email today!), Facebook, Instagram etc., you’ll get my standard response to please ask at our next Open Wire – and check out past Open Wires for lots of answers to lots of good questions. (And odds are good that if you have a question, someone else has or has had the same question – so the Q&A helps everyone.)
The next Open Wire is on August 9, starting at 8 a.m. Eastern. (Then October 25 and December 13.)
The following is excerpted from “Shaker Inspiration” by Christian Becksvoort.
Not too many woodworkers can claim five decades of business success, but Becksvoort is among them. In “Shaker Inspiration,” he shares not only his woodworking knowledge and some of his best professional techniques for producing top-quality work, but also the business advice that helped him establish and sustain his long career in a one-man shop. Plus, he shares measured drawings for 13 of his own well-known furniture designs and seven Shaker pieces that he’s reproduced.
Before starting any craft or trade, it’s essential to know the material you plan to work with. Most of us know the rudimentary properties of wood: It’s a renewable resource; it can be soft like pine or poplar, or hard like maple and oak; it splits with the grain, but not across it; no two pieces are alike; it can twist, warp and bow. That, however, is just the beginning. To really know your material, you’ve got to become aware of the nuances. I know I’ve covered this in several Fine Woodworking articles, and in “With the Grain: A Craftsman’s Guide to Understanding Wood” (Lost Art Press, 2015), but it definitely demands a re-hash.
So let’s jump right into Wood Technology 101. Don’t roll your eyes if this seems too elementary. Everybody has to start somewhere, so bear with me. I remember the first project I built in high school. We were taught the use of hand tools (and were tested), power tools (tested), basic joinery (tested), safety (tested) and finishing. My first big project was a 2′-square plant table. I built it to withstand anything. It was glued, screwed and tattooed. A Christmas present for my mom, she put it in the window, right over a hot air vent. Within a week the top cracked down the middle. I asked my shop teacher what I’d done wrong, and he said, “You didn’t let the wood move.” Huh? It wasn’t until I took a wood technology course years later that it all made sense. We’ll get to that shortly.
1-1A. Northern white cedar (Thuja occidentalis) cross-section photomicrograph. Coniferous woods (gymnosperms) are older and simpler in structure than angiosperms (hardwoods), and are comprised mostly of tracheids, with no vessels (they are nonporous).1-1B. White pine (Pinus strobus) cross-section photomicrograph showing tracheids and three large resin canals.
Trees are divided into two groupsscientifically: gymnosperms and angiosperms. Gymnosperms are the conifers. They are the older of the two groups, more simple in structure, have uncovered seeds and generally have needles that stay on year-round (except some species, including tamaracks). Commercially, this group is called “softwoods,” although not all conifers have soft wood, yellow pine being a prime example. Conifers have only tracheids and parenchyma cells. However, they have no vessels, so they are called non-porous.
1-2A. Red oak (Quercus rubra) cross-section photomicrograph. Angiosperms (hardwoods) are more complex than gymnosperms, and have vessels. They are referred to as porous woods. The oaks are ring-porous, showing a distinction between early wood and late wood.1-2B. Red maple (Acer rubrum) cross-section photomicrograph. Maple is a diffuse-porous wood, showing little distinction between early and late wood.
Angiosperms made a more recent appearance on the planet, and are structurally more complex, with vessels, tracheids, parenchyma and other specialized cells. They are porous and have enclosed seeds, broad leaves that usually fall in the winter (with exceptions including holly and various tropical woods) and have a greater number of species. Commercially these are the “hardwoods,” although this is misleading, because angiosperms include trees such as poplar, basswood and even balsa. Of the roughly 1,000 native North American woods, only about 30 conifers and roughly 80 deciduous species are used commercially in any quantity. This huge selection of native woods offers a variety of colors, textures, smells, grain patterns and uses. I would strongly urge woodworkers to “go native,” as opposed to importing exotics and hastening the destruction of the rainforest. I mean, how can you beat the purple-brown of freshly cut walnut, the dark red of aged cherry, the smell of sassafras or the lace pattern of quartersawn sycamore? Native woods are often local, more easily obtained, and less expensive.
1-3. Aged black cherry (Prunus serotina). Cherry is extremely photo-reactive, turning from pale pink to rich brown in a matter of weeks.
Let’s take a look at wood anatomy. Figure 1-4 shows the basics. From the outside is the bark, beneath which lies the cambium layer, the layer of lateral growth. It consists of the phloem, which forms the bark toward the outside, and the xylem, which produces a new growth ring of wood each year. The first cells produced each spring are typically larger (best seen in ring-porous woods such as oak and ash), and make up the early wood, while those produced later in the season tend to be smaller and are referred to as late wood. The outer portion of the tree trunk constitutes the sapwood, which is made up mostly of living cells used to transport water and minerals to the leaves and branches, and move sugar from the leaves to the cells and roots. When a sapwood ring dies, it turns into heartwood. This happens every year, but at different stages and on a different time frame for each species. The amount of sapwood also varies greatly in species, from less than five rings in catalpa, black locust and chestnut, to maybe a dozen in cherry and walnut, and to 40-50 in the maples, while it may take close to a century for tupelo and persimmon to form heartwood.
1-4. Typical hardwood end-grain cross section. JOHN HARTMAN ILLUSTRATION.
Heartwood cells are dead, and often a different color than sapwood. This is due to a collection of extractives such as tannins, lignin, gums, fatty acids, waxes and volatile organic compounds deposited in the cells. These give the heartwood its distinctive color, smell and decay-resistance (or lack thereof).
At the center of the tree is the pith, a soft, spongy material formed behind the apical meristem. The apical meristem (not shown) is the “growing point” at the leader at the top of the tree and the ends of branches that give the tree height and the branches length. To put it more simply, the apical meristem grows the tree taller, while the cambium layer grows the tree wider.
Emanating radially from the pith to the cambium are ray cells, used in lateral transport of nutrients. These play a big part in the stability of quartersawn wood.
Wood Movement I don’t want to spend too much time on what’s obvious to many of us: crooks, bows, warp, spalting, figured grain, burls and reaction wood. Check out “With the Grain” if you want to explore any of these terms a bit further. Let’s just jump into what’s really important: wood movement.
Wood movement is a major obstacle for many beginning and even intermediate woodworkers. The reason is that wood is an anisotropic material. That means that wood has different physical properties along different directions. As mentioned previously, it splits easily along its length but not across the grain. It has tremendous loadbearing capacity along its length (with the grain), but dents relatively easily across the grain. Figure 1-5 shows the amount of shrinkage that occurs in a red oak, from green (just less than 30-percent moisture content (MC)) to oven-dry (0-percent MC). Tangential shrinkage (think flat-sawn boards) is 8.6 percent, while radial shrinkage (quartersawn lumber) is about 4 percent, or roughly half. What’s going on to cause such difference? It’s mostly the ray cells (although the difference in early wood and late wood structure also plays a part), emanating from the center of the tree to the outside; the ray cells act like rebar in concrete. They actually hold the wood cells tightly in place and thereby reduce the amount of shrinkage. Now look at the bottom line in Figure 1-5, longitudinal shrinkage. It’s barely visible. Generally speaking, longitudinal shrinkage is about 0.1 percent, and is generally ignored.
1-5. Shrinkage vs. moisture content of red oak. (Hoadley, R. Bruce, “Understanding Wood – A Craftsman’s Guide to Wood Technology.” Newtown, Conn.: The Taunton Press, 1980.)
Let’s put that graph into perspective. Suppose you have a red oak board that’s 12″ wide (30.5cm) and 100″ long (just more than 8′, or 2.5m). If it is perfectly flat-sawn, it will shrink 1.1″ (2.8cm), or just less than 9 percent, in width from the time it is sawn from a green log, until it is dried down to 0-percent MC. That’s quite a sizable amount. If that same red oak board were perfectly quartersawn, it would shrink only a smidgen over 1/2″ (1.3cm), or 4 percent. Either of those boards, flat-sawn or quartersawn, starting at 100″ (2.5m), will shrink only about one-tenth of one inch (.25cm) in length. That’s next to nothing in comparison, and virtually ignorable. So as a wooden rule of thumb, we say that wood moves half as much radially as it does tangentially, and doesn’t change in length.
Think of wood much like an accordion that changes in width, but not in length. That’s because the cell walls act like sponges, absorbing moisture when the humidity is high, and releasing it when the air dries out. It’s obvious that water is at the root of the problem. Eliminate changing moisture and you eliminate wood movement. So you’ve got a few options when working with solid wood. If you live in a museum where the temperature and humidity are constant year-round, movement is not an issue. You can encase the wood in plastic, or a 100-percent impermeable material and prevent moisture exchange. Or you can do what woodworkers have been doing for thousands of years: You can learn to deal with it.
Backtracking just a little, let me say a bit more about moisture content. Green wood can have from 45 percent of its weight as water (white ash, for example), to more than 200 percent of its weight in water (some cedars, sugar pine and redwood). That’s a lot of water. Much of the water is in the cell cavities. This free water doesn’t affect the shrinkage, only the weight. At about 30-percent MC, the free water has evaporated, and what remains is bound water, inside the cell walls. This is the fiber saturation point. Bound water is harder to eliminate, because it is trapped in the cell walls and it takes a fair amount of energy to drive that water out. That energy can come from either sunshine and wind, or gas, oil or electricity when kiln drying. Once bound water begins to leave the cell walls, they start to shrink. Likewise, the entire wood mass begins to shrink. Sort of like a sponge, more water causes the cell walls to expand, while decreasing water causes the walls to shrink.
1 Per 1 percent change in moisture content, based on dimension at 10 percent moisture content and a straight-line relationship between moisture content at which shrinkage starts and total shrinkage. (Shrinkage assumed to start at 30 percent for all species except those indicated by footnote 2.) 2 Shrinkage assumed to start at 22 percent moisture content.
Air drying will usually bring the MC down to the neighborhood of 12 percent, depending on which part of the country or world you are in, while kiln drying aims for about 6-percent MC. Unfortunately, the wood doesn’t stay at those levels, but is at the whim of the weather. Warm summer air holds more moisture so the wood swells, while colder winter air holds much less water so the wood shrinks. Forced hot air heat has even less moisture, and can bring the moisture down to kiln-dried levels. In essence, wood is always play-ing “catch-up” to the current weather conditions, trying to maintain equilibrium with the moisture in the surrounding air.
Don’t panic over the amount of initial shrinkage from green to oven-dry. For a piece of finished furniture inside a home or office, the maximum range of MC is between 6 percent and 14 percent. That cuts the wood movement down considerably, but not enough to ignore. It’s still a major issue when constructing solid-wood furniture, but it’s manageable, and managing wood movement is what separates antiques from landfill fodder.
Let’s take the problem of wood movement head-on. Here is what you’ll need: First, make yourself a copy of Figure 1-6, “Dimensional Change Coefficients,” and keep it in your shop. Laminate it so it will last for years. Alternatively, you can visit the Forest Products lab website (www.fpl.fs.fed.us) and look up the “Wood Handbook: Wood as an Engineering Material.” Lee Valley Tools has a small paper “Wood Movement Reference Guide” that allows you to dial in 75 different woods and check their radial and tangential change coefficients. Highlight the woods you use most often, or memorize their values. Second, you’ll need a moisture meter. This is a must have item for the serious woodworker. I owned one before I had a table saw. You can get a digital pin-style meter at a home supply store for $30 to $40. Top-of-the-line electromagnetic wave meters can run in the neighborhood of $500, but the cheaper ones will work just fine. Finally you’ll need a calculator.
1-7. Dial caliper showing .105 gap over drawer. Use the formula above to determine and measure the ideal expansion gap.
This isn’t rocket science, just a simple calculation. Here is what it consists of: the width of the piece in inches or centimeters, multiplied by the current MC, and the expected change as a whole number (how far from the maximum MC off 14 percent expansion, or the minimum MC of 6 percent for shrinkage), multiplied by the Dimensional Change Coefficient for the species you’re working with, and whether it’s flat-sawn (Ct or tangential) or quartersawn (Cr, radial). Because not all boards are 100-percent flat-sawn or quartersawn, you can pick a number in between these values. A good guess works, although I always try to err on the side of a more conservative value, just to be safe.
For example, I’m making a cherry drawer 6″ (15.24cm) high, in midwinter, with wood that has an MC of 7 percent. It’s mostly flat-sawn. Worst case scenario, it will absorb moisture next year and reach a max of 14 percent. That’s a 7-percent change. Working from Figure 1-6, the coefficient for flat-sawn (tangential) cherry is .0025. On my trusty calculator, I multiply 6 (width) x 7 (change in MC) x .0025, which equals .105″, or just more than 1/10″ (2.7mm). With a dial caliper I don’t even have to convert to a fraction; I just set the dial to .105 (or 2.7mm), and make my drawer front that much smaller than the opening.
1-8. Tool handles of various native hardwoods. Dovetail saw with tiger maple handle, D-8 with apple handle, brace with cherry handle, three awls with lilac, dogwood and plum handles, hornbeam chisel, walnut chisel and live oak and ash mallet.
Fitting that same drawer in midsummer, when the wood has an MC of 10 percent (14 percent max minus 10 percent current equals 4 percent), the equation looks like this: 6 x 4 x .0025 = .06, or <1/16″ (1.5mm). In this case, the drawer can be a mite taller.
Wood movement won’t go away if you ignore it. It’s something I take very seriously. Every time I fit drawers, doors and backs, make tabletops or do any sort of cross-grain construction, I reach for the moisture meter and the calculator. It only takes a few minutes, and will prevent serious future headaches. It keeps you and your customers happy. If you know what you’re doing, knock on wood, and follow these simple calculations, you’ll never have a piece returned for a stuck drawer or split case side.
An unknown maker weaving a hickory bark seat. Photo by Warren Brunner.
The following is excerpted from “Backwoods Chairmakers,” by Andrew D. Glenn. Part travelogue, part profile and part how-to, “Backwoods Chairmakers” explores the tradition of the enduring Appalachian ladderback form. Glenn takes you inside the shops of more than 20 makers, with photos and personal interviews about their lives and techniques.
We sat for a moment before deciding what to do. My host and guide, furniture maker Alf Sharp, made the proper choice by staying in the car, which sat in an open yard and was clearly visible in the driveway beside the house. I opened the car door and started toward the front door.
We knew a chairmaker lived nearby. We had just left a visit with Cannon County, Tennessee, chairmaker, and he pointed us in this general direction. He told us another chairmaker lived on this lane. The yard showed all the common characteristics of a chairmaker residing here.
I was met by a large dog as I rounded the corner of the house. Calm and without agitation, he blocked my path to the door. I stood, frozen, in the front yard for a few moments. His vibe made it clear that I should not come any closer. I began slowly backpedaling to the car, looking forward toward the dog yet not into his eyes. I was 50 feet from the car and hoped he would allow me to leave. He followed me on my left side the entire time, a few steps away and without any change in his demeanor, until I found my car door and got back in.
He’d done his job, just as I attempted mine. After a few deep breaths, Alf and I were off again, looking for the next property with a shop around back and timber piled about the yard.
•••
It was the mystery behind it all that first attracted me to these chairs.
Our family had recently moved to Berea, Kentucky, so I could join the college and craft community in the small town in the west-most foothills of Appalachia. When we arrived, we didn’t know much about the place, and we had a significant time of discovery and adjustment.
I went about learning the woodworking traditions of central and eastern Kentucky. Ladderback chairs were a natural interest, and they were abundant. The chairs are staples at flea markets, coffee shops, junk stores, galleries and garage sales. Most were older chairs, sometimes spray painted blue or pink to match a child’s room, yet some were the current work of contemporary chairmakers. Many were mass-manufactured, with bulky proportions and aheavy finish. But interspersed among the forgettable were the idiosyncratic and charming handmade chairs, with drawknife marks evident on the slats and posts. This clue suggested there was once a considerable collection of hand-tool chairmakers in this region. My sense was that they were all gone, but there was no way to know.
Joyful child and Tom Donahey, North Carolina.
Before arriving in Kentucky, I knew the chairs of Chester Cornett: giant, bombastic handmade rockers, along with the charming, well-proportioned settin’ chairs of his youth. Chester worked into the 1970s, shaping his chairs with hand tools and, as his work changed, a small collection of power tools. It wasn’t contemporary work, but it wasn’t in the distant past either. Was it possible that chairmakers still worked this way? Chester lived in poverty while making his chairs decades back, and I figured it’d only gotten tougher to make a living since then.
Eventually, the idea that chairmakers in central Appalachia were still making chairs proved too enticing to ignore. I began asking the long-established craftspeople around town if they knew of any remaining chairmakers. Friend and long-time Berea dulcimer maker Warren May shared his dog-eared Kentucky Guild Craft Festival catalog from 20 years earlier and pointed out the name of an Eastern Kentucky chairmaker. Here was my chance to connect, if the phone number from the 1990s still worked.
I sheepishly called that evening, not even sure what to ask, other than to introduce myself and ask to visit his shop. He generously welcomed me and offered his guest room for an overnight stay.
Randy Ogle of Sevier County, Tennessee, turning a back post in his shop, at the same lathe his father once worked.
A few weeks later I drove east, fully aware of my ignorance, both in making backwoods chairs and mountain culture. I was, however, fully aware of the history of exploitation of the region. People from away – the timber and coal industries especially – took from mountain communities with little regard for its people. They extracted resources and profit, then moved along. Despite this history of abuse by outsiders, the chairmaker welcomed me.
When I arrived, I realized that I’d overdressed. I was immediately given the good-natured nickname “professor” for my association with the college, the pencils in my shirt pocket and my khakis. Then we got down to business and ventured into the woods on the steep mountainside to gather material. I fumbled along as we split and shaped a fallen ash log into chair posts. I lost my footing on the slope and clumsily hacked at the work, instantly huffing and muttering as we drove wedges into the log. I’d built plenty of chairs in the shop, but this required a different skill set.
Though I was out of place, we connected through the language and love of chairs. And that’s precisely where we stayed, sharing stories of chairmaking, asking questions, listening and learning.
I left at dusk the next evening, hoping to find the main road before nightfall. I had built (with substantial help) my first mountain chair.
Mike Angel (right) and Kelly Angel putting a back post into the bending form. Photo by Victor Sizemore.
Once I reached the monotony of highway driving, my mind returned to the events of the last two days. There was an immense beauty to the work that I had not experienced before. The chairmaker, on his ridge, working in the open air as much as in his shop. Life and work intertwined. A deeply held appreciation for the timber and his place within his community.
He took the trees around him and made them into chairs and furniture with a collection of prized hand tools and a couple machines. There was a symmetry and balance to it all.
That first visit was the spark that led to this project.
I wondered if there were enough working ladderback chairmakers around still to write more than a few chapters. A fellow woodworker suggested that I was “chasing ghosts,” and that I might need to resort to writing historical fiction. That was my fear as well, that Appalachian post-and-rung chairmaking was a thing of the past.
While it appears that the roaring flame of traditional Appalachian chairmaking has dwindled, it is in no danger of going out. Gone are the days of multiple chairmakers in every county, providing for the needs of their communities. Yet the old ways are not forgotten. The tradition is not dead. It has adjusted and adapted to the times.
Newberry and Sons Chair Shop (with the open doors) in Red Boiling Springs, Tennessee.
I sought chairmakers who derived income (either part or whole) for their livelihood and who made post-and-rung chairs. The focus is on central Appalachia, though some stories lead far from the region. Most of the makers in this book are still making chairs, or nearing retirement, though there is mention of a couple renowned makers of the past – Dick Poynor and Chester among them.
There are more chairmakers working within central Appalachia than the ones mentioned here; I am confident in that. While I chased down untold leads in the search for chairmakers, there was no way I could follow all of them. The makers are decentralized and disconnected from one another. This leads to beautiful, unique chairs, but it also makes them very hard to find.
It was apparent during the conversations and visits with the chairmakers that this tradition is not nearing extinction. Post-and-rung chairs still have much to offer anyone who wants to build them: a closeness to the land and material, creative expression, a connection to the community, the ability to create a cottage industry – along with doing hard, physical work and the independence that comes from being a craftsperson. Chairmaking, in this way, is more than an occupation. It is a way of life.
It didn’t take a professor to recognize the beauty in it all.
Philippe Lafargue died at his home from an undiagnosed glioblastoma on June 22. Philippe has been instrumental in the Roubo project, helping with translations for “Make as Perfectly as Possible: Roubo on Marquetry” and “With All Precision Possible: Roubo on Furniture.”
“When we first met more than 35 years ago, I recognized immediately the talents Philippe possessed, talents that often surpassed his ability to communicate them,” says Don Williams, who co-authored the Roubo books along with Michele Pietryka-Pagán. “Over the years, thanks to the foundation of the multi-year curriculum of École Boulle and the career choices he made later on, combined with the thoughtful encouragement of his former wife, Maria, and the family life with his children, he became what Tom Wolfe would call ‘A man in full.’ In the end, his contribution of good-humored friendship and technical, historical and verbal expertise was integral to Team Roubo functioning smoothly for creating the volumes. We will proceed without him, although to be truthful, I cannot fully envision that right now.”
On learning of his death, Michelewrote, “I never actually met Philippe, but I could tell from one phone call that I was communicating with a true professional – not only a true master at what he did, but also a superb human being. We are all worse off with this loss of Philippe. May he rest in peace.”
We recently featured Philippe in a Meet the Author profile. It ended with this quote from Philippe:
“You can fight all the time but life is going to take you where it’s going to take you. It’s up for you to go for it, to be quick to accept and change. And you are always part of it. That’s the beauty of it. No matter what happened, you are part of it – 50 percent is your choice. The rest is to accept that you have decided to do this or not. That’s the difficult part. But life is short. Life is to be lived. Life is to discover yourself.”
The following is excerpted from “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker,” by Anonymous, Christopher Schwarz and Joel Moskowitz.
It begins in 1839. In that year, an English publisher issued a small book on woodworking that has – until now – escaped detection by scholars, historians and woodworkers.Titled “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker,” this short book was written by an anonymous tradesman and tells the fictional tale of Thomas, a lad of 13 or 14 who is apprenticed to a rural shop that builds everything from built-ins to more elaborate veneered casework. The book was written to guide young people who might be considering a life in the joinery or cabinetmaking trades, and every page is filled with surprises.
Unlike other woodworking books of the time, “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” focuses on how apprentices can obtain the basic skills needed to work in a hand-tool shop. It begins with Thomas tending the fire to keep the hide glue warm, and it details how he learns stock preparation, many forms of joinery and casework construction. It ends with Thomas building a veneered mahogany chest of drawers that is French polished. However, this is not a book for children. It is a book for anyone exploring hand-tool woodworking.
Thanks to this book, we can stop guessing at how some operations were performed by hand and read first-hand how joints were cut and casework was assembled in one rural England shop.
Here’s what you’ll find in our expanded edition of this book:
• A historical snapshot of early 19th-century England. Moskowitz, a book collector and avid history buff, explains what England was like at the time this book was written, including the state of the labor force and woodworking technology. This dip into the historical record will expand your enjoyment of Thomas’s tale.
• The complete text of “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker,” unabridged and unaltered. We present every word of the 1839 original (plus a chapter on so-called “modern tools” added in a later edition), with footnotes from Moskowitz that will help you understand the significance of the story.
• Chapters on the construction of the three projects from “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker.” Schwarz built all three projects – a Packing Box, a dovetailed Schoolbox and a Chest of Drawers – using hand tools. The construction chapters in this new edition of “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” show the operations in the book, explain details on construction and discuss the hand-tool methods that have arisen since this book was originally published.
• Complete construction drawings. Lost Art Press drafted all three projects in SketchUp to create detailed drawings and cutting lists for the modern woodworker.
Confession time: No one has ever taught me how to fit a lock. I have always done it by instinct, feeling along in the dark until the thing fit and worked (after a good deal of fussing).
So reading the directions in “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” was a real revelation. As a result, fitting the lock for the Schoolbox was straightforward, fast and simple. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I don’t have anything to compare it to except my own self-taught ham-handed cave-carving methods. So you’re not going to get anything to compare Thomas’s methods to.
In any case, this method works great. Here we go. The key to everything with setting the lock is the pin that the key turns on. Yes, the keyhole is important, but not as important as the location of the pin. Let this square piece of brass guide you and you’ll be fine.
Bore a hole through the front of the box using a birdcage awl. The sharp arrises of the awl will bore through the front. Barring that, drill a hole that is smaller than the pin in the lockset and test the fit.
Find the centerline of the front of the Schoolbox and strike a vertical centerline near the top. The line need only be 1″ or 2″ long. Now you want to bore a scant hole through the front that the pin will push into (that’s why the pin is proud of the lock mechanism). You can measure this location, as Thomas did. Or you can line up the top of the lockset with the top of the carcase and push the pin into the soft pine. Then set the lockset aside and use a birdcage awl to bore a hole straight through the front of the box, where the pin should go. When you break through to the inside of the box, try to fit the pin into the hole in the front of the box. Widen the hole on both sides until the pine holds the pin right where it will be in the end.
With the lockset in place, position your square up to the extents of the top plate and trace those lines on the top edge of your box.
Now mark where the top plate of the lockset will fit in the top edge of the Schoolbox. Working from the front of the box, press the pin into your hole. Clamp the lockset in place and trace the extents of the lockset onto the top edge of the Schoolbox. Use a square to help.
Here I’m using a cutting gauge to mark the front edge of the lockset on the top edge of the box. Then measure the thickness of this top plate and mark that on the inside of the box. Start wasting away this shallow mortise.
Now you want to mark out the width of the top of the lockset’s plate on the box. Set your marking or cutting gauge to the width of the plate and use the gauge to connect the distance between the two pencil lines you just struck. The mortise for the top plate of your lockset is now ready to be wasted away.
Router planes excel at this type of detail work. When you need mortises that are exactly the same depth (such as matching hinge mortises), a small router plane is the tool for the job.
To remove this waste, score it with a chisel that you drive with taps of your mallet. You can then remove the waste with the chisel or use a router plane to ensure the depth of your mortise is consistent.
A drawer-lock chisel is great for this sort of close-quarters work. Score the waste with the drawer-lock chisel then remove the scored waste with a bench chisel by working from the top.
Now push the pin of the lock into the hole in the inside of the Schoolbox. The works of the lock will butt against the front piece. Trace around the box that holds the works. Measure the thickness of the lockset and mark this as the finished depth of your lock’s mortise. You can chisel out this recess, or you can saw its extents, then chisel it.
Use a fairly thick pencil lead to mark around the works of the lock. The corners of the lockset might be rounded over during manufacturing, and a thick pencil will actually give you a more accurate line than a skinny pencil lead.
The rest is easy. Press the lock into this mortise and trace around its back plate. Then waste away this area using the same techniques discussed above. If you measured carefully you should have a fullmortise lock that fits completely flush without thinning the front of the Schoolbox any more than necessary.
Use some small files to enlarge the hole for the key. Use a rattail file to enlarge the hole around the pin. Use a flat file to make room for the rest of the key. It doesn’t have to be perfect if you are going to cover the keyhole with an escutcheon plate.
Screw the lockset in place and fetch the steel hinges. They need to be installed in the case before the lid is affixed.
