Included in his investigation of the life, tools and a detailed look at the furniture of Jonathan Fisher (1768-1847), a rural Maine minister and craftsman, author Joshua A. Klein also presents an overview of 38 pieces built by this Harvard-educated renaissance man. Below is number 10, a charming child’s desk, from “Hands Employed Aright.”
Wood(s): maple or birch; legs are an unknown hardwood (possibly beech)
Inscriptions/stamps: sticker on cubby lid “Desk made by Rev. Jonathan Fisher Blue Hill, ME. (1791-1847) Lonnie E. Davis got it in 1948-9 fr. James Fisher bequest to MA Dodge 1955”
From the collection of: Jonathan Fisher Memorial
Construction: The desk is made of butted and nailed construction. The legs protrude up through bottom as corner reinforcement and were nailed from the outside. Everything is nailed together through the adjacent face. The nail holes appear to have been puttied. The top has a hinged scalloped decoration. The apron also has scalloped decorative pieces nailed to the undersides of the front and sides. The desk lid’s hinges are face mounted. The writing surface end grain is covered by a 1⁄4″-thick decorative carved strip. There are turned balls on the front corners. The top-hung drawer is butted and nailed with cut nails. The drawer runners are nailed from the bottom up into the desk with cut nails. The inside cubby is divided into four compartments. The small hinged cubby door is on wire cotterpin hinges. The writing surface has a lock attached with nails. The bottom is nailed in place from all sides. There is yellow paint residue in cracks and dark yellow putty in the nail holes. On and around the hinges are remnants of red paint. Red pigment is visible on the drawer underside. The desk underside has pink chalky residue.
Tool Marks: There is considerable tear-out on the inside of one of the legs. There are some sash sawmill marks on the desk bottom. The bottom was planed with a fore plane. Most surfaces are smooth (perhaps due to later sanding during refinishing). The apron scallops have chisel facets and there is a saw kerf visible between scallops. There are divider center points on the scalloped details on the aprons. There are fore plane marks on the drawer face. The drawer bottom is rough and irregular. There are chisel facets on the top scalloped detail.
Fisher’s high valuation of hard work emanated from his constant recognition of the fleeting nature of time and, throughout his life, Fisher lived under a sense of Divine calling. Every moment mattered. He saw himself as a steward entrusted to use his time in this life wisely. Fellow minister, the Rev. Stephen Thurston, couldn’t help but recall that Fisher “was remarkable for his industry, esteeming it a great sin to waste time. Hence he accomplished much – labored on his farm, wrought at his bench, studied much, published several books, wrote more sermons than any man [he had] ever known …”. (9)
It was, at first, hard for me to contextualize Fisher’s level of productivity because I knew many ministers of this period were both well-educated and prolific. It is true that, compared to 21st-century standards, the amount of work Fisher produced is astonishing, but I wondered if that was typical for the 18th and 19th centuries. It turns out my doubts were unfounded.
Fabricating the elaborate clock mechanisms required a careful and skilled hand.
After reading scores of observations from his contemporaries, I found every single comment about the parson’s productivity concurs with this amazement. Even in his day, people could not believe what he accomplished. His son Josiah recalled, “Every moment of the day he was fully occupied from his early rising to about 10 at night. By a systematical division of time he was enabled to perform an amount of labor which is truly surprising.”
Fisher’s entry for Jan. 1, 1790, solemnly reflects on the passing of another year: “The fleeting years roll on in constant succession; seventeen hundred and eighty nine is past forever! Our clocks may stop, our business may be suspended; but the wheels of time will ever move till the grand period, when eternity commences … It is of infinite consequence that we should seize and use the present moment; not in the work of tomorrow, nor in the work of yesterday, but in the work of today, in the work of this instant. Time can never be recovered.” This conviction never abated and, accordingly, his actions throughout life were ordered and punctual. In the words of Candage, “his minutes were as precious to him as money to the miser.” (10)
This prioritization on productivity was apparently enough for Fisher to undertake the construction of a clock during his vacations from Harvard between 1790 and 1792. This “single day time piece,” a complex mechanism of wooden and brass gears of his own design, was a challenge that pushed his intellectual and artistic limits. Even the logwood-dyed clock case must have been something special – he spent three weeks constructing it.
Fisher’s clock face.
It is telling that of all the furniture that Fisher made for himself, this is the only piece that elicited explicit commentary. When Fisher later copied these early journal entries, he added an annotation that it was in his grandfather’s room until 1817, at which point, he brought it to Blue Hill to be installed in his new addition. Once home, he “repaired it and somewhat improved it, and set it up in [his] own house in Bluehill, where to this day, December 31, 1833, it has been a valuable piece of furniture.”
For some unknown reason, the original clock case was discarded in the 1817 restoration process and the clock itself was installed into a built-in closet in his hallway facing the kitchen. As a part of this restoration, Fisher also painted an elegant and florid new face for his clock. Several inscriptions remind the viewer to use their time wisely. At top center, the face reads: “Beholder, thou art NOW alive! Eph 5:16” (which is “Redeeming the time, because the days are evil”). Just below center of the dial, Proverbs 27:1 is written in Hebrew: “Boast not thyself of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.” The bottom of the clock reads: “What is your life?” in French and, “Time irretrievably flees” (a reference to Roman poet, Virgil) in Latin. Fisher saw the new clock face as an opportunity to call attention to the fleeting nature of life. The clock, then, functioned as a minister to him and his family, a preacher of righteousness, calling him to industry.
The mechanical aptitude required to make a clock exceeded that of the average rural craftsman.
But the spiritual value is only one side of the coin because it is hard to overestimate the significance of clocks in the late 18th century. To be able to tell time to the minute was an indication of sophistication and intellect. Scholars, ministers and gentlemen had clocks. Farmers had no use for the second hand – they thought in terms of morning and evening. But the urban elite had meetings and appointments. For a rural frontier minister to not only own a clock, but build it himself, is noteworthy.
The mechanical aptitude necessary to produce such a device was outside that of the average “mechanic” in the 18th century. Designing and fabricating the clockworks during vacations from college was the epitome of the marriage of head work and hand work. Such complex mechanisms demanded thorough planning and a careful hand in a way that none of his cabinetmaking did.
The clock was installed into this built-in closet in the main hall of his 1814 addition.
This clock face vividly illustrates how the intellectual, spiritual and creative vision Fisher had could collaborate to produce an object that asserts the power of all three at once. This complexity of abilities and motivations makes Fisher a fascinating study. To see an educated man who was just as comfortable conversing with the intelligentsia of his day as he was hewing out posts for his kitchen chairs is inspiring, to say the least.
(9) From Fisher’s funeral sermon delivered by the Rev. Stephen Thurston. (10) Candage, Rufus George Frederick, Memoir of Jonathan Fisher, of Blue Hill, Maine (1889), Kessinger Publishing, 2009, p 226.
A detail of the 1888 photograph seen earlier shows a chimney as well as windows in the chamber (upper floor) of Fisher’s shop. Approximately 60 years earlier, there was a small windmill on this roof to power his sawmill, lathe and grindstone. – Jonathan Fisher Memorial.
Who better to write a book about Jonathan Fisher, a late 18th century/early 19th century Maine woodworker and preacher, than Joshua Klein? Like Fisher, Joshua and his family are homesteaders in rural Maine, doing their best to live completely off the land. And Joshua is using in his own shop many of the same types of tools that Fisher had in his collection (not a surprise to those who know Joshua as the founder and editor in chief of Mortise & Tenon Magazine, a periodical that celebrates the preservation, research and recreation of historic furniture). As the crow flies, the Kleins live about 7 miles from Fisher’s Blue Hill farm.
In November 1810, Fisher began building a model of a “wood house.” Never one for technological stagnation, Fisher envisioned a building next to his house that was dedicated to producing lumber on a wind-powered sawmill that would also power his lathe. As a lumbering town, Blue Hill had numerous water-powered sawmills in Fisher’s days, but on his property at the top of the hill, Fisher had no access to a river or stream. What he did have, especially after years of clearing his property, was wind.
Although the memories of New England’s windmills are nearly faded, their abundance, especially along the coastline, is well documented. (2) As early as the 17th century, windmills (primarily for grinding grain) were being built in areas of New England without direct water access so they were not an unusual sight by the early 1800s.
As commonly known as they were, however, the construction of such a mechanism was beyond the skill of most craftsmen. One author has noted that the millwright’s job required a precision and care equal to the shipwright’s. The vision of a rural farmer building a windmill to saw his own lumber is quixotic. It seemed a project doomed to fail.
Although water mills were much more common in Maine, New England, as a whole had many windmills, especially along the coast. – Drake, Samuel Adams, Nooks and Corners of the New England Coast, Harper & Brothers, 1876, p 344.
Reading through the journals during the two-and-a-half-years of construction of the mill is agonizing, especially as the recorded tally of his investment that included his own labor rises at $1 per day (the same rate as Joseph Murphy, a cabinetmaker of South Berwick (3) ) in the midst of numerous frustrated attempts at sawing.
We know the mill was generating power as early as April 1812, because Fisher recorded having his grindstone running “by wind.” After investing substantially and working on it for more than two years, Fisher recorded on April 19, 1813: “Worked upon saw gear and made an attempt to saw wood. Broke the [?]. Greatly disappointed in my hopes. Endeavored to resign to the will of God but found it a hard trial. I doubt not, however, but God intends good by this cross. Expense of wood house, etc. = $215.50.” The next day all that is recorded is: “Made a new experiment to carry my saw for sawing wood by wind – discouraged in it. Laid it aside = $216.50.”
Despite his discouragement, Fisher carried on and a few days later wrote, “first commenced sawing wood, with some, though small, good effect.” From here, only periodic sawing is recorded. The anticlimactic success of the sawmill is startling after so much labor and expense.
The roof of this Estonian spinning wheel shop was equipped with a small windmill for powering woodworking machinery. Fisher’s was probably similar. – Courtesy of Lost Art Press.
The wind power was also harnessed to drive the lathe. June of that year, Fisher documented: “Worked upon turning gear and set my lath a-going by wind.” Powering lathes with water power was common in production shops but wind-powered lathes were much less common. It’s hard to envision the practicality of such a setup. The irregularity of the wind must have been a challenge to deal with for the turning he was doing. The idea is not unprecedented, however. Windmill historian, Roy Gregory, has documented the use of an 8.5′-tall tower mill in a Lancashire, England, shop that powered a lathe and circular saw. The mill is described as having four 8′ long common sails with gears for regulating speed (4). Ants Viires, a historian of Estonian woodcraft, has photographed a small tower mill attached to the roof of a mid-20th-century spinning wheel workshop. It is likely that Fisher’s was similar in size.
The design of the wood house’s lathe is unknown. In Fisher’s room-by-room probate inventory taken in 1847, it listed a lathe and its chisels in the barn of which his son, Willard, was half-owner. Because two of the existing poppets do not fit the surviving lathe, it is assumed that Fisher had another lathe in the shop that was discarded when that building was taken down. Because no lathe (or any workbenches, for that matter) are listed in the probate inventory, it may be that these shop fixtures were built-ins. Often, probate inventories exclude these items because they were considered part of the shop building.
Although we know Fisher built at least two lathes, this is the only one that has survived.
It is apparent that Fisher achieved his primary goal with this windmill project because he was able to generate lumber to some degree. But it must not have revolutionized his production enough because in June 1821, he disassembled the tower of his mill, never to speak of the mill in action again. Neither the 1824 Morning View painting nor the 1888 photograph of the wood house show any evidence to testify to the existence of the mill.
The up-and-down “sash” saw marks from the mill can still be seen on the inside and backside of much of Fisher’s casework.
That Fisher referred to a least a portion of his wood house as his “shop” suggests that he eventually moved his tools out of the barn and into this dedicated space. The transition between workspaces must have been gradual because the installations of a new workbench and lathe are carried out over time amidst other woodworking projects. It is also conceivable that there always remained a small shop space in the barn for convenience sake.
In June 1823, Fisher was busy setting up his “shop chamber.” He moved his grindstone to a new location, built a “cupboard” for tool storage, constructed a portable workbench and installed a new stove. The reconfiguring of this workspace was likely due to his feeling “the infirmities of old age creeping stealthily upon him.” Perhaps this rearrangement facilitated his work.
This detail from Fisher’s A Morning View of Blue Hill Village shows the arrangement of the Fisher homestead from the side. Moving from left to right, we see the original barn, the hog house and some other outbuildings, the original red house attached to the yellow 1814 addition and finally the black “wood house.” – Jonathan Fisher, A Morning View of Blue Hill Village, 1824, oil on canvas, 25-5/8″ x 52-1/4″, Collection of the Farnsworth Art Museum, Rockland, Maine; Museum Purchase, 1965.1465.134.
2. Lombardo, Daniel, Windmills of New England: Their Genius, Madness, History & Future, On Cape Publications, 2003. 3. Burch, Abby, By His Account Rendered: The Business of Cabinetmaking in York County, Maine, 1815-1840, a modified master’s thesis, 2008. 4. Gregory, Roy, The Industrial Windmill in Britain, Phillimore & Co., 2005.
After graduation, [Jonathan] Fisher married Dolly Battle of Dedham, Mass., and accepted a call to minister to the frontier town of Blue Hill in the District of Maine. Situated about halfway up the Maine coast, Blue Hill is the subject of many idyllic landscape paintings. The jagged and rocky shoreline, salty ocean air and lush forests have long attracted tourists looking to get away from city life.
Fisher’s letters to family members are full of warmth and piety.
As welcome a vacation spot as midcoast Maine is today, in the first half of the 19th century it was inhospitable frontier wilderness. Between the notoriously recalcitrant populace and the lack of resources, the isolated frontier was a daunting mission. Kevin Murphy described Blue Hill in the 1790s as “a clutch of rude dwellings surrounded by some rickety tidal mills.” (2) The benefits of serving in a well-established town were not lost on Fisher. Before accepting the call to rural Blue Hill, he also considered a pastorate in Ashby, Mass., “in the heart of a well settled country,” which offered closer proximity to family, better compensation, assistance from fellow ministers and more “temporal conveniences.” For a Harvard-trained minister, the allure of urban ministry was real. Despite this temptation, Fisher felt a divine call to serve in this frontier setting – the “infant part of the country” – because “it [was] difficult for them to find a sufficient number of candidates, who [were] willing even to come and preach among them, and much less to settle.” (3) As one man said, “We are so as it wore out of the wourld that we don’t hardly know wether we do rite or rong but we mean to do as well as we can.” (4)
The Province of Maine from the best authorities, Samuel Lewis, 1794, W. Barker sculp., engraved for Mathew Carey’s American edition of Guthrie’s Geography Improved. – Courtesy, David Rumsey Map Collection, David Rumsey Map Center, Stanford Libraries, https://purl.stanford.edu/sr253bc9505.
Late 19th-century Blue Hill historian, R.G.F. Candage, recalled: “In personal appearance Father Fisher was below medium height; he dressed in ancient style, with small clothes, knee buckles and shoes, and a long waisted coat, his head bald and thrown slightly forward, with his whole demeanor and appearance clerical and grave; no one could see him and doubt his profession.” This image of the publicly austere reverend concurs with other contemporary descriptions of him, but reading his journals and personal correspondence one can’t help but be impressed with his warmth and piety. Kevin Murphy’s assessment of Fisher’s demeanor concurs with my own: “Fisher’s public persona – serious, and probably overbearing and too exacting for his parishioners – overshadowed the private Fisher, who emerges from his letters and diaries and from the words of his family as sensitive, intelligent, and inspiring.” (5) Or as Mary Ellen Chase put it: “He mingled authority with love.” (6)
As temporary structures, log cabins were quick to build and allowed frontier families to prepare the land for settlement. – Missouri History Museum, St. Louis.
Jonathan Fisher’s life was far from easy. He regularly dealt with migraine headaches, stomach pains, diarrhea and serious injuries from manual labor. Despite these trials, Fisher resigned himself under the hand of Providence. Accounts such as that of August 28th, 1818, are common: “Came on for Bluehill exercised with pain in my side, back and bowels and with diarrhoea. Called at Phin. Osgood’s, Jr. Reached home 10 P.M. Took sop pills and mullein tea. Found the family well, except Josiah, wounded by an ax. Have reason to bless God that we are all yet spared in life, that we have so many comforts indulged us.” Even in the midst of debilitating physical pain, Fisher carried on with the work at hand. On March 17, 1826, his journal reads, “High N.W. scattering clouds, cold. From 9 A.M. ‘till about 5 P.M. exercised with earache, some of the time severely. Tried first camphor on wool, then hot tobacco smoke, then had several drops of West Indian Rum dropped in. This in the first trial gave a little relief; in the second removed the severity of the pain. At intervals through the day planed out stuff for a common ruler, a pair of parallel rulers and modern dividers, finished the latter, A part of the time walked the room in great pain. It is easy to bear pain when we do not feel it, but when it is acute, then to bear it with patience is something.” He was a resilient man. Not owning a horse until late in his life, he was known to regularly travel long distances on foot, even as far as Bangor, 40 miles away.
This 1802 overmantel from a Paris, Maine, house illustrates well the stages of settlement: Clearing forest, building a house frame and the establishing of a village center. “View from Paris Hill” in the Lazarus Hathaway House. – “The Clearing of Paris Hill.” Oil on pine board, 30″ x 48″, artist unknown. Overmantel from the Lazarus Hathaway house, Paris Hill, 1802. Courtesy of the Hamlin Memorial Library and Museum. Photograph by Brandan Roberts.
Fisher’s most active furniture-making years were between 1796 (when he settled in Blue Hill) and 1820 (when he paid off all his home- and farm-building debt). The years between the Revolutionary War and 1820 (when Maine achieved statehood) were formative years for the new nation. This was especially true for the “easternmost countries” of Massachusetts, which were then called the District of Maine. Maine’s struggle for independence during these years can be seen as a “microcosm of the larger quest for national identity.” (7) Politically, demographically and socially, the District of Maine had been an “outpost” of Massachusetts since the late 17th century.
Maine derived most of its cultural influence from Boston in the same way that Bostonians looked to London for the latest fashions. Despite this deep-rooted “Boston prestige” during Fisher’s life, Maine was developing an identity apart from Massachusetts. It is not surprising, then, that Maine’s art during the Federal era often reflects this emerging sense of identity, blending vernacular/folk traditions with the sophistication of academic training.
(2) Murphy, Kevin D., Jonathan Fisher of Blue Hill, Maine: Commerce, Culture, and Community on the Eastern Frontier, University of Massachusetts Press, 2010, p 3. (3) Letter to Ashby from Fisher, October 26, 1795. (4) Harding, Samuel B., The Contest over the Ratification of the Federal Constitution in the State of Massachusetts, New York: Longmans-Green, 1896, p 8, quoted in Banks, Ronald F., Maine Becomes a State: The Movement to Separate Maine from Massachusetts, 1785-1820, New Hampshire Publishing Co.; Wesleyan/Maine Historical Society, 1973, 4, p 9. (5) Murphy, Kevin D., Jonathan Fisher of Blue Hill, Maine: Commerce, Culture, and Community on the Eastern Frontier, University of Massachusetts Press, 2010, p 13. (6) Chase, Mary Ellen Jonathan Fisher, Maine Parson 1768-1847, The MacMillan Co., 1948, p 279. (7) Clarke, Charles E.; Leamon, James S. and Bowden, Karen, Maine in the Early Republic, Maine Historical Society and Maine Humanities Council, 1988, p 12.
Years ago I attended the Southern Highlands Craft Show in Asheville, North Carolina, and bought a goose carved by an older woman. She had two geese, but I could only afford one. The goose was in the charging position: head down and neck extended. It was the start of my appreciation for carved animals. Unfortunately, a couple years later the beak was chewed up by a long-haired black cat with a bum leg and an attitude (side note: this cat also enjoyed being vacuumed using the upholstery attachment). The damaged goose was packed away to limit further damage, and the cat with the bum leg moved with me seven times in three states, outlived two younger cats and died when she was 18. I did not acquire another wooden bird until well after she was gone.
Now, I have a small collection of wooden birds and will share some of them with you. I have also included some historical examples of practical items shaped like birds. We’ll start with a few from southeast Pennsylvania, a well-known region of talented folk artists.
A crow or raven. Carved by Dan Strawser in 1974, southeastern Pennsylvania. 9-1/2 inches long, 5-1/2 inches high.
Dan Strawser has been carving since the 1970s, and his wife, Donna,paints the birds. I’ve seen other birds by Strawser with wings carved in a similar manner. It looks as though the bird is seconds away from lifting off. Strawser did not sand the surface, allowing the surface carving to stand out and give the bird dimension. The bird and rounded base are painted a uniform black with only a small dot of white on each eye. Sometimes there is an urge to paint a base a contrasting color or pattern. For this bird I think a different color would detract from the overall image.
“Three little birds pitch by my door step…” Three small birds by Alvin G. Martin, 1989, Mennonite carver, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. 8 inches long, 5-1/4 inches high.
These may be house sparrows or song sparrows or some other birds entirely. Either way, I was attracted to the composition and the painting. Each branch with bird is one piece of wood with saw marks still visible. The body positions of the birds capture the quick movements of their real-life counterparts. Martin’s patterning and use of color on the birds and branches is nicely done, and the solid dark green base complements and anchors the composition.
One of the challenges in carving birds is what to do with the legs and feet. Alvin Martin painted the birds in a natural position with legs bent under the body and only the painted feet shown perching on the branches.
A bluebird by Ben Hoover, active in the 1970s and 1980s, Mennonite, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
This little bird hangs from a ceiling fan light pull in a room where my mother spends much of her time. Bluebirds are her favorite. As you can see, the paint work is wonderful. Bluebirds are frequent visitors to our yard. One spring I watched a male bluebird trying to show two perplexed youngsters how to take a bath.
As much as I value the work of the carvers of southeastern Pennsylvania, both their observations of the natural world and their creative efforts to craft birds and other animals, I also appreciate a different approach.
A swan made of two pieces of black walnut by Chicago-based artist and designer Peter Dunham. Approximately 6 inches wide, 5 inches high.
Peter Dunham has designed a variety of animals, with most comprised of two to four pieces. The appeal to me is stripping the figure of an animal to its defining elements, in this case, the long curving neck and the large and wide-flung wings.
Putting Birds to Work
Domesticated birds have often inspired craftspeople to make bird-shaped boxes for use in the home. There are many examples of this idea in the “Peasant Art” series of books by Charles Holmes.
An egg box in the shape of a goose from the Tyrol or Vorarlberg area of Austria from “Peasant Art in Austria and Hungary” by Charles Holme, et. al., published in 1911. Dimensions not given.
The top of the box (one piece or two?) flips open and it looks like there may be a catch mechanism at the base of the tail. A kitchen box to hold eggs is a utilitarian item. It can be a plain square box and does not need decoration. However, when the maker matches the design of the box to its use it becomes an object of joy. The curve of the bird’s neck, the detail given the eyes and beak and the meticulous chip carving add nothing to the quality of eggs stored within. But, for the woman or child that transfers the eggs from an old straw basket to this box it provides a moment of pleasure in the long day of work on a farm.
A duck-shaped box, New Kingdom (16th to 11th century BC), Egypt, British Museum. 6 inches long, 3-3/4 inches high. The head is attached, and the beak is broken.
The idea of a bird-shaped box has a long history and can be found in many cultures. This box was used for cosmetics. The wings, attached with pins near the neck, form the lid and are decorated with crosshatching. The wings, likely cut from one piece of wood, swing out to open the box.
Another example from ancient Egypt from the same time period and with similar measurements. British Museum.
Another New Kingdom cosmetics box with a missing lid allows a better view of the bowl-shaped body of the bird. As can be seen in the color photo and the line drawings, this duck box has a greater level of carved detail. Although they are not necessary for the function of the box, we find the duck’s feet! With the wings closed and sitting in one’s hand this would be a delightful little duck that just so happens to be a box.
Back, or forward, to the 20th century and one more practical item in the shape of a bird.
From “Peasant Art in Russia” by Charles Holme, et. al, published in 1912.
This egg dish, or bowl, is quite dashing with handles formed by a beak and a tail of almost equal size. The bird’s “crew cut” comb just adds to charm of this piece.
Back to My Birds
A small bird bowl by David Fisher.
This bird, by a carver in the exotic western portion of Pennsylvania, just sings. Dave has captured the dynamic moment before a bird launches itself into the air and takes off like a shot.
A partridge, maker unknown. 4-1/2 inches long, 3-1/2 inches high.
I don’t know who made this little bird or where it was made. Except for a portion of the head and neck it is covered in moon-shaped feathers. The head, back and wings are stained, adding dimension and life to the carving.
The wings are not perfectly centered on the body, but it takes nothing away from the piece. I find myself reaching for this bird almost every day. It is a little treasure.
One bird I do not attempt to pick up very often is the largest bird in my small collection, Rémy the Rooster.
Rémy the Rooster in front of one of my bookcases. Not his usual spot, but the only place to get a good photo of his magnificent entirety. 32 inches high, weighs about 10 lbs.
I don’t normally give names to inanimate objects, just the special ones. Rémy was purchased from a seller in northeast Alabama close to where that corner of Alabama meets Tennessee and Georgia. It is possible he was made in the southern Appalachians. He was dated as being made in the 1940s, but could be a bit earlier or later. Whoever made this rooster had a good sense of humor.
I found a similar rooster, very likely by the same maker, on a high-end sale site that dated it as 19th century. It sold for more than five times what I paid for my bird and its shipping cost. To me, the 19th century date is doubtful. The entire bird was painted a mottled reddish color that obscured carved details on the head. I suspect the paint job was an effort to artificially age and date the piece.
My rooster is painted black and, based on several nicks and dings, there is no undercoat of a different color. The comb and wattle are dark red.
I find the head-on view a bit disturbing.
Carved details on his head include curlicues on the comb and a simple round eye rimmed with white. The carved line of the beak is defined with dark red paint. There is a chip off the end of the beak and on one wattle (or fleshy caruncle) and some dings here and there. Whatever his age, he is in good condition.
Rémy is made of one piece of wood and is staked into a base that is 4 inches high. A feather edge is carved above his legs, and the legs have spurs. His feet are carved into the base, a common feature for many wooden roosters.
One of the problems the bird carver must solve, besides how to present the legs and feet, is the weight of the tail. Often this is solved by carving the bird and base as one piece, or by placing the bird on a base as was done in the crow/raven in the top photo. The showy tail feathers of a rooster require a different solution as the weight and extension of the tail can easily tip over even small carvings. Rooster crafters have solved this problem by chopping out the underside of the tail feathers, thereby reducing the mass of the tail.
Now, I would never knowingly photograph the hind quarters of anyone, even to show you the rooster-tail solution. On the other hand, I have no qualms using a photograph taken by someone else (of the previously mentioned expensive rooster) as a means of illustrating the solution.
The derrière of the “other” rooster. It also shows more of the surface carving of the tail feathers.
Although we may not be able to perfectly identify the species of each wooden bird, or have exact information on when and who made them, what we do have is handmade work that brings us pleasure. By extension, these wooden examples can help guide us to have a greater appreciation for the birds outside our windows.