This is the only opening in a tool chest class until 2014 I believe.
If you can ditch work that week, contact the school’s director, Bob Van Dyke, via e-mail or phone: bobvandyke@sbcglobal.net or 860-729-3186. During this class we’ll be building the chest out of some outstanding Eastern white pine – Bob is a wiz at finding beautiful stock.
And we will be eating at Frank Pepe’s pizza. A lot. Perhaps until I am sick.
I have never counted how many benches I have brought into the world, either through my hands, by teaching classes or writing books.
No matter what the number is, I can tell you that this bench will be my favorite. Not because the design is perfect – it’s a direct copy of A.-J. Roubo’s bench in plate 11 of “L’Art du menuisier.” And not because of the material – we’re using 18th-century French oak. It’s a great design and it’s great material, but the reason I love the unfinished bench that is now hanging out the back of my Nissan Xterra is because of the people I built it with.
Woodworking is a solitary endeavor for the most part. So getting to build a workbench with a bunch of guys, day in and day out, was new. I didn’t have to teach people how to cut a mortise, a tenon or a dovetail. There was no hand-holding.
And together we brought 16 benches into the world. What kind of designs? Who cares?
What height? Don’t care.
What kinds of vises? Lots.
The joinery? All kinds. All good.
Look, based on my writing you might assume that I like one kind of bench over all others. That’s not exactly true. My favorite kind of bench is the one that gets used.
When we kicked off this French Oak Roubo Project on Sunday night, I made a pledge to those participants who might use their bench as merely a decorative object (kitchen island? Dining table?). I vowed to sneak into the house and leave a flaming bag of poo on the benchtop.
Now, I’m joking, of course. I don’t think I could actually poop into a bag. (I haven’t tried since I was in Cub Scouts.) And I don’t think it would be all that flammable.
But still, the point I’m trying to make is this: Even if it’s a hollow-core door on sawhorses, it’s an awesome bench if things get built on it. There are other designs that might make it easier for you to hold the work, but if your hollow-core door inspires you to build birdhouses or highboys, then it’s a good bench.
In fact, the only thing that sucks about this class is that I have to leave it a day early. I managed to cut my sliding dovetails (yes, by hand) and rough out the through-mortises (yes, with a drill), but I didn’t get the whole thing assembled.
But I will.
When it’s done, I know that some people will wail about it. I will not add finish to it. I will tooth its benchtop. The leg vise will not have a parallel guide or a garter. And I’m going to use a toothed metal planing stop, which will surely mark my workpieces and utterly destroy my handplanes.
Despite all that, I will build a lot of cool s#$t on it.
If you have ever been in spitting distance of a tornado then you are familiar with the sound and then the silence.
Today we finished up most of the machine work for the benches and turned our attention to the handwork needed to get the joints together. But first, there was to be a smoke show.
While ripping a last piece of oak on a 14” Martin table saw, the oak clamped down on the back of the blade. The operator, one of the skilled assistants, held his ground at the arbor. If he’d let go, the 60-pound piece of oak would have flown back at him. He couldn’t turn off the saw because the old-style switch was out of reach of his leg.
I saw it happen all from behind. First there was a noise. When I looked up the smoke from the blade was drifting into the shop fan – shooting it out like a jet across the room.
As the noise began to bend, the operator’s strong arms began to jiggle like Jell-O. I started to run for the switch, but Jeff Miller was faster. He dove under the saw and switched it off. No harm came to anything except the wood, which was burned.
No one said much of anything for about an hour. The machines in the room were turned off. The rest of the day was mostly quiet. A few people switched on the band saw for a cut or two. But most of the day was all hand cutting, hand planing and hand paring.
Despite the adrenaline, I tried to keep moving all day long. Thursday is my last day here in Barnesville, Ga. On Friday morning I have to head out to Berea, Ky., to teach a two-day class on making wooden layout tools at the Kelly Mehler School of Woodworking.
So I had to get all the joints fitted for the base of the bench so I could cut the joints in the top. The strength in these French workbenches is in the joint between the tops and the legs. The stretcher joints are not as critical.
So when it comes to fitting those joints, I usually take a page from the playbook of Peter Follansbee. He says that mortise-and-tenon joints such as these should be seated when you hit them with your hat.
So about 5 p.m., Jeff Miller walked up to me as I was bashing one of my joints with a dead-blow mallet.
“Looks like we have the same kind of hats,” he said.
I grabbed my shoulder plane and finished the job in 10 minutes.
I wiped down my tools and put them away. Ate barbecue. We went back to our sleeping quarters and the power went out in a thunderstorm (it was a 30-percent chance of rain).
So now I need to sign off so Raney Nelson, Don Williams and I can tell ghost stories.
Raney ”Miller” Nelson slides his bench leg into the cradle on the Tannewitz 36” band saw. The task: Push it forward to cut one of the dovetails on the top of a leg for his workbench.
He pushes forward. He gets to the finish line and pulls the leg backward. But instead of pulling the jig back, only the leg comes back. The leg drops out of the jig and jams the blade in the joint.
The 36” band saw begins screaming like an owl trapped in a revolving door.
Before anyone can turn off the saw, there is a sound like a gunshot. Several students soil their pants (or use the sharp sound as an excuse for soiling their pants… again). And then sparks begin to fly out of the band saw as it makes its screaming death braking procedure.
After five minutes, Raney and I exhale. We wait for band saw to spin down before we open the wheel covers.
Five minutes more pass. The saw is still spinning.
I go off to cut the joints on my legs.
Five minutes pass. The saw is still spinning. Raney walks away to work on his legs. Somewhere an entire episode of “Hee-Haw” is aired. The saw is still spinning.
I forget entirely that we broke the blade, and Don Williams comes up to ask if anyone is going to change the dang blade. Raney checks it. Still spinning.
Tuesday was joinery day in Barnesville, Ga. We cut mortises in all the legs – I got the distinct pleasure of this job and became intimate with the pneumatic controls on the mortiser. At one point, Justin Leib (one of the bench builders) asked if he should leave me alone with the beast for some pneumatic consummation.
Other highlights:
• We cut the tenons on the tops of the legs.
• We surfaced all the stock for the stretchers.
• We flattened most of the benchtops with a planer.
• Most of the students did a crapload of handwork on their components.
• Raney broke a band saw blade.
• We ate fried chicken.
On Wednesday we should finish a lot more joinery. Jameel “Jamal Alabama” Abraham and I hope to experiment with a timber-framing band saw to cut the dovetail slots in the top.
And, with hope, that Tannewitz band saw will finally spin down so Raney can change the blade.
This morning Don Williams, Raney “my little spoon” Nelson and I awoke to a gentle Georgia rain. After pulling on some clothes and convening in the kitchen, the talk turned immediately to money.
A reader had asked me via e-mail if we were going to sell offcuts of the ancient French-grown oak we were using to build these benches. I suggested perhaps bottling some sweat (I am making 750ml a day here in the Georgia heat). Then Don came up with the best idea: Unwashed game-day jerseys from the build.
However, after smelling the thing that I peeled off my body this evening, I doubt that the USPS would allow it into the mailstream. Raney and I got into the car at the end of the day and he said: “I smell man.”
(I hope it was me.)
The first day of the bench-building project was brutal. It’s my favorite day when building workbenches.
We split the participants into two teams. One team focused on getting the benchtop slabs through the Straitoplaner – an awesome machine. The other team, which I was on, was responsible for dimensioning the leg stock. We had to cut it down to rough length, then joint, plane and crosscut the oak to size.
This stuff is heavy. And each leg blank was 4” x 7” x 36” to start. And we’re making 16 workbenches.
About 3 p.m., both teams finished dimensioning the tops and the legs and we turned our attention to the tops. Of the 16 tops, 11 were one single slab and the builders focused on truing up their edges. The rest of us had to glue up our tops from two slabs (we had to rip out the pith from some of the slabs).
Jointing the edges were the hardest part of the day. It took six people to push each stick over the jointer – sometimes five or six passes for each edge. We glued the tops up with PVA – we needed the clamps for the next glue-up. By 6 p.m. we had four of the five tops glued up.
For dinner, the instructors went to the house of Ron Brese, the planemaker who has been helping with the bench-building project. We got a tour of his shop, we played with his planes (and dovetail saw collection) and then we set out to find Cheerios for Don.
