There are many pretenders to the Starrett C 604 RE. Accept no substitutes.
This 6” rule approaches perfection. I will stop everything I am doing in the shop until I can locate it. I bought my first one in 1996 at Aufdekamp’s Hardware in the then-scary Over-the-Rhine neighborhood in Cincinnati. It was about $20, which was a significant sum for me. But the experienced woodworkers with me that day insisted I wouldn’t regret the purchase.
And I haven’t.
What’s so dang perfect about this ruler? For me, it is the graduations etched into the steel and soft chrome background behind them. The soft chrome makes the rule easy to read and won’t reflect light like a mirror. If you buy a vintage rule, avoid the shiny chrome that Starrett used to use. It can be hard to read.
Many other rulers have graduations that are of too-similar lengths – the 16ths, 8ths and 4ths are too close in length, which makes the rule difficult to read. Starrett perfected the graduations, and I can take a measurement with one glance instead of four or five.
The graduations are finely milled into the steel and are filled with a durable black. Many other rules have graduations that are far too wide. And I am not talking about machinist precision here – many graduations on cheap rules are wide enough to interfere with handwork.
Finally, the little scale on the end is a nice feature. Very handy for measuring tenon shoulders, the depths of dados, etc.
It’s not perfect, however. If I could change one thing about the rule, it would be to remove the 64ths. I could probably work fine without the 32nds as well. When I need to get into 64ths and the like, I’m going to use a different tool.
But I cut the rule some slack on this point because it was made for machinists.
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.
As always, I begin this annual gift guide with: The Listing of the Caveats.
In general, “gift guides” are marketing trash that try to trick your family members into buying a set of Silicone Domino Flashy Budgies with Bubble Level.
When a celebrity woodworker promotes a gift guide, it is usually just a list of trash given to them by a sponsor – usually a woodworking store. Sometimes the celebrity gets a kickback from each sale. It’s not illegal, but it’s slimy.
This gift guide is simple. It’s a list of tools I’ve bought during the last couple years that I’ve tested and really like. I paid full retail for these doo-dads. I am not an affiliate with any of these manufacturers (or any manufacturers at all). Also, I try to keep the price of the items in this gift guide low because it might be your kids who are buying this stuff for you.
If you don’t like this gift guide, please start a better one so I can take the Christmas season off for once.
Star-M F-type Bits
From the Japanese makers of the wonderful WoodOwl bits come these incredible little buggers. I was first alerted to these bits by Kyle Barton almost two years ago.
Their claim to fame is that they won’t splinter out the exit hole. You can drill straight through a board without a backing board. Also, the bits in general cut cleanly, aggressively and have a long center point (which allows you to angle the bit quite a bit).
While I’m sure they are sold elsewhere, I buy mine from Workshop Heaven in the U.K., which keeps a regular stock of them and ships them fairly reasonably. They are metric, but they are sold in such small increments that a U.S. workshop won’t notice.
The bits feature a hex shank, which allows them to fit in bit extenders and tools with a hex chuck. I definitely prefer the hex shank whenever possible; it prevents the bit from slipping in the chuck.
I bought an entire set as they aren’t terribly expensive – basically as much as a good Forstner bit. I use them extensively for chairmaking because they work really well at odd angles and I don’t need backing boards behind my work.
Here is the exit hole when I tried to force feed the bit through a piece of cherry to attempt to blow out the backside. Not bad. If you aren’t a Thundarr about it, you’ll get even cleaner exit holes.
If you make staked furniture, you’ll probably want to try the 16mm bit, which is close to 5/8”. I’ve beat the heck out of this particular bit and can report that it is still dang sharp after almost two years of use and maybe 30 chairs.
There’s got to be a downside, yes? Yes. Sometimes the bits seize up as they cut the exit hole and activate the clutch on your cordless drill. Turn the clutch off when you use these bits (or better yet, use a corded drill without a clutch). But that’s the only criticism I’ve got.
Star-M does it again.
— Christopher Schwarz
If you want to read some of the older gift guides, the 2013-2018 entries are here at Popular Woodworking. The guides from 2019 to the present are here.
The good news: “James Krenov: Leave Fingerprints,” Brendan Bernhardt Gaffney’s biography of one of the 20th century’s most influential woodworkers, is almost two weeks early. It’s shipping right now from the printer in Tennessee to the warehouse in Indiana.
So the bad news: The pre-publication special – the hardcover book plus a free copy of the PDF – ends at midnight Friday (EST). If you order before then, you get the book plus the pdf for $44. On Saturday, the hardcover book alone will be $44; the book and the PDF together will be $55.
When will yours arrive? The warehouse is typically quick to fill the pre-publication orders, so it should be soon after the books arrive; be on the lookout for an email in the next week or so with shipping information. And as always, if you think there’s a problem with your order, please don’t post a comment here – send an email to help@lostartpress.com for far quicker assistance.
