One of the biggest hurdles chairmaking students face when making their stretchers and sticks is drilling the tenon on the end of the stick. I use the Veritas Power Tenon cutters for this. And we do it freehand with the cutter in a drill.
So some skill and practice is required.
(Yes, I know I can mount the tenon cutters in a lathe and build a platform for the stick so the tenon is perfect every time. A lot of students don’t have or want a lathe. And my goal is to teach this craft with as few tools and jigs as possible. Why? It’s just how the Grasshopper God made me.)
Some students get the feel for it after a few sticks. One student burned through – no lie – more than 30 sticks, and he still didn’t get it right.
I’m always asking other chairmakers for tips on how to teach people to use this tool. From my own experience, here are the important steps:
Level the stick in the vise.
Level the tenon cutter using its bubble level.
Press firmly forward.
Advance steadily, and check to ensure you are still level and the cutter is perpendicular to the stick.
Chairmaker Travis Curtis offered this helpful suggestion: Try to observe the whole operation – don’t narrow your focus to one small area in front of the cutter. This will help you steer straighter.
It’s like driving a car (or cutting with a band saw). If you look right at the pavement in front of the hood, your steering will be erratic and you might squish the Grasshopper God inadvertently, bringing shame and a 20-year curse on your house.
But if you look a mile ahead of your car, your steering will be steady and smooth.
This is a helpful tip. But it didn’t fix everyone’s problems.
Then Derek Jones taught his Cricket Table class here a couple weeks ago and he modified all my drills by gluing a bubble level on top of each one. (We have an entire drawer of individual bubble levels; you cannot buy just one.)
These bubble levels make the tenon-drilling process even more predictable. You can’t see the bubble level on the tenon cutter when it is spinning. But you can see the one on the drill. So you can make fine adjustments as you drill and observe the entire process in your field of vision.
Like this:
I love solving a problem using the brains of a bunch of people. Give this a try if you haven’t already.
Vesuvius erupted on this day in 79 C.E. To commemorate the event, here’s the introduction to Christopher Schwarz’s book on ancient workbenches: “Ingenious Mechanicks.” Why? The earliest workbench depiction that we yet know of is in a fresco in the House of the Vetti in Pompeii, which was buried in the volcano’s explosion and remained buried until the late 19th century.
The journey to the summit of Mount Vesuvius has all the romance of visiting an unlicensed reptile farm. It begins in Ercolano, Italy, a touristy village in the shadow of the volcano and home to Herculaneum, one of the towns buried by Vesuvius’s eruption in 79 C.E.
As Narayan Nayar (the photographer for the journey) and I stepped off the train from Naples we were assaulted by young, attractive Italians. Their job: Bait tourists to nearby restaurants. We glanced around and saw only one escape route from the train station’s cul-de sac. So, we plowed through the crowd of eager human fishing lures.
We emerged from the other side a bit relieved. Then we realized we’d scurried past the bus company that was supposed to drive us up the volcano. We turned around and dove back into the swarm of too-perky people in order to catch our bus.
The twisty-turny bus ride ended 660 feet below the volcano’s summit, and we then climbed a steep trail to the volcano’s rim. The top resembles a gravel pit where one of Frank Herbert’s worms might emerge. There’s no deep hole for tossing human sacrifices – throw a virgin into Vesuvius and she’s only going to get skinned knees and a sunburn. I looked around the volcano and promptly excused the early settlers of the area for building their homes at the base of Vesuvius. The only evidence you’re on a volcano (besides the little gift shops) is the occasional tiny plume of gas and the odd rocks below your feet.
I picked up a few rocks. For rocks, they were young – likely the result of the 1944 eruption, which destroyed several villages. I looked out from our 4,200-foot perch at the buildings in every direction below, which are built on top of villages that were covered in ash from earlier eruptions. It’s a grim scene if you think about it too much – 600,000 people now live in the so-called “red zone” for a future eruption.
And yet, as I fondled the rocks in my hand I felt only gratitude for this deadly, fire-breathing mountain.
The Earliest Workbenches The recorded history of woodworking begins with the Egyptians. But the recorded history of workbenches begins (for now) with Vesuvius. Its massive eruption in 79 C.E. buried Pompeii, Herculaneum and other sites, preserving frescoes, buildings, pottery, human remains and even wooden furniture.
At Pompeii, the ash blanketed a fresco showing a low, four-legged workbench being used for mortising by a man in Greek attire. At nearby Herculaneum, the eruption preserved a fresco showing “erotes” – what we might call “buck nekkid cupids” – sawing a board at an eight-legged low workbench. It features a holdfast and other holdfast holes. This fresco has since been destroyed, but we have engravings that were made soon after its discovery (more on both the frescoes’ stories is ahead).
These two images are the earliest representations of workbenches of which I’m aware. And they launched my interest in exploring knee-high workbenches and how to use them to build furniture, boats, storage containers and wagon wheels.
The conventional wisdom is that these low benches were used in former times for simple work and were replaced by superior modern benches, which are thigh-high or taller. But the more I studied low benches, the more I found that they never disappeared. They are still in use. Additionally, these low benches can be used for complex work, including steam bending compound shapes and lutherie.
The low bench is more than a thick plank of wood with legs. It’s also a collection of simple jigs and appliances that allow you to do remarkable work while sitting comfortably on an easy-to-build platform. For centuries, these simple jigs remained hidden in plain sight in paintings and drawings in museums. And their appliances have been proven to work, both at my low benches and by the modern craftsmen who still use them.
But why bother with this musty old crap? Modern woodworkers are blessed with a wide array of vises, dogs, clamps and other devices that can immobilize a piece of wood so you can work on its faces, edges and ends.
Well, at times I think we tend to make our workholding far more complex than it has to be. And that can affect your approach to the things you build. While your brain might see the logic of a screw-driven tail vise with a series of movable metal dogs, the ingenious early craftsman might find this same vise slow, fragile, fussy to maintain and cumbersome in use.
I empathize with the early woodworker. My brain is wired to look for a simpler solution to a problem instead of creating complexity.
Example: Earlier this year, I spent a couple hours in the dentist’s chair and was force-fed several episodes of a home-improvement show focused on carving out storage from oddball places in a home. Some of the examples I remember over the whirring of the dental Dremel include:
Hinge your steps to create trap doors on the landings of your stairs to make small bins in the wasted space between your stringers.
Find stud walls that are chases for utilities and turn them into built-in chests of drawers.
In attic spaces, create sliding racks on the interior of a high-pitched roof. You slide giant plastic bins into the racks – it’s a bit like a top-hanging drawer.
Through the entire program I wanted to puke (that was mostly because I have a sensitive gag reflex). But it was also because these “storage solution” programs neglect to mention the easiest way to control clutter: Get rid of your excess crap.
No one should have so much stuff that they have to slave excessively to make a place to stow it. In the same way, no workbench needs vises on all four corners (I’ve built these for students and customers) to build fine furniture. You just don’t.
With this book, I hope to expose you to early and simple ways of holding your work. While many of these devices were used on low workbenches, most of them work on high workbenches as well. I use both sorts of benches – high and low – in my work for building all manner of things, from stud walls to Welsh stick chairs, dovetailed chests to nailed-together coffins.
The workholding on these benches is truly ingenious and effective. Things change when you sit down to work. And I think you’ll be surprised what you can do on your bum: planing, chiseling, shaving and even dovetailing.
The low bench form might not be for everyone. But it might be right for you and you might not know it. Woodworkers with limited mobility use low benches because they can sit and work. Apartment woodworkers use low benches because they take up little space and do double-duty as seating or a coffee table. Curious woodworkers use them because – dammit – they are an interesting form to build and use. Many chairmakers already use a low bench (but they call it a shavehorse), as do many other specialty trades, including coopers and basketmakers. Oh, and a low bench is the best sawbench ever made – promise.
One more plug for these early benches: Using their lessons, you can make almost any surface into a worksurface. A couple drywall screws can turn a picnic table into an English-style workbench. A missing brick in a wall (and a pine wedge) can become a face vise. A shavehorse can be cobbled together with a rock and a scrap of wood strapped to your gut.
Even if you never build a low workbench and reject its appliances as “not whiz-bang-y” enough for your engineering mindset, you might enjoy the journey of discovery required to write this book. It involved trips to exotic Italy, Germany and Indianapolis. (And understanding the low bench might connect your work to Chinese benches.) In the process, we rescued oak slabs from a pallet factory. We flushed $1,000 down a metaphorical toilet to learn about the construction of the first modern workbench in 1505. We ate a ton of Neapolitan pizza.
Workbenches are at the heart of everything we do. So, let’s take a brief look at the history of Western workbenches and consider why it’s even worth looking at ancient benches.
When I bought a set of Lie-Nielsen chisels in the early 2000s, I had to sell my set of Barr Cabinet Maker’s Chisels. Our kids were young (Katherine was just 3), and Lucy and I struggled to pay the $1,200 monthly daycare bill for two kids.
I couldn’t justify owning two nice sets of chisels when I needed only one.
I rationalized selling the Barrs by saying the Lie-Nielsens were more suited for the work I was doing at the time – lots of dovetails. And I stand by that statement. The Lie-Nielsens are lightweight and have outstanding balance. And they won’t wear you out if you have to chop out 100 pin sockets.
But I regretted selling the Barrs. They were simply outstanding, and they held an edge better than any other tool steel I’ve worked with (including Japanese chisels). I wrote about my long experience with Barr tools here on my substack, “The American Peasant.”
The Cabinet Maker’s chisels are fantastic for heavy work and have a handmade feel, like my blacksmith-made scorp, adze and 2” Barr chisel.
This week I turned the clock back, and I now own a set of four Barr Cabinet Maker’s Chisels. After chatting with Ginger Quarton at the company, I learned that the company still makes batches of the chisels two or three times a year. I asked if I could get on a waiting list.
As luck would have it, they had a set of the tools on hand – a customer had changed his mind. So I purchased his error.
The four chisels – 1/4”, 1/2”, 3/4” and 1” – come in a heavy leather tool roll. They are exactly like my old Barrs. Beefy and easy to sharpen.
They are a good deal heavier than my Lie-Nielsens. The Barr 1/4” chisel weighs 145 grams; the Lie-Nielsen 1/4” weighs 65 g. The Barr 1/2”: 192 g. The same-size Lie-Nielsen: 95 g.
With no more daycare (or college tuition) bills left to pay, I am happy that I can keep both sets. Yes, I feel a little Anarchist’s Tool Chest Guilt. But I have room for both chisel sets in my tool chest. Hell, I still have quite a bit of space in my tool chest for other stuff if I wanted more planes or scorps or an extra brace or two (which I really don’t).
I spent an hour at the bench tonight tuning up the Barr chisels. (They didn’t need much – just a little polishing on the back because I’m a fussy guy.) I’m now in the middle of building several chairs, and I have some large through-tenons to chop. So these tools are going straight to work in the morning.
The following is excerpted from Derek Jones’s forthcoming book, “Cricket Tables.”
Simplicity, necessity and ingenuity are the three key principles for making cricket tables. This traditional three-legged table exists in a variety of forms and woods – no two are the same. So making them follows an organic process – your tools and materials dictate your approach and your cricket table’s final form. Jones introduces the form, then teaches you the simple skills to create a variety of everyday furniture with a few basic hand tools and easily sourced materials.
It’s no coincidence that every new paragraph in this chapter refers to the concept of a reliable datum, and if you prepare stock and build items on your bench it makes perfect sense for that piece of equipment to be flat. Level is also good but not nearly as important as flat. As this chapter is about establishing habits that result in better workflow, I’m not going to explain blow by blow how to flatten a benchtop; that information is well documented and easy to find. What I will say is, make sure you make it part of your regular workshop housekeeping regime. You’ll find it nigh on impossible to plane something flat if your bench isn’t that way first, and as for assembling anything square? Forget it.
Regular check-ups are the key to a healthy benchtop and with a square-edged straightedge, you just place it on edge and look for gaps between the benchtop and the straightedge. Hopefully that’s fairly obvious. Now let’s assume you’re using a plane to flatten your benchtop. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to make sure your plane is also flat before making any adjustments? Fortunately you’ve got the right tool for the job but this time rather than rely on a visual inspection you can introduce one of those senses I mentioned earlier, touch, and for that you’re going to need a set of feeler gauges. You can pick up a perfectly adequate set for less than $5 or pay 10 times that amount for a precision ground set but for woodworking, “adequate” is all you need. Feeler gauges are thin strips of metal calibrated to specific thicknesses, contained in a wrap-around case. A good starter set might include blades from .002″ (0.05mm) up to .036″ (1mm). To use them, you select a blade to slide between the straightedge and whatever it is you’re calibrating where there is a gap. Note that you may not be able to see the gap itself.
To check the sole of a metal-bodied plane for flatness set the lever cap pressure as if you were about to use it and then retract the blade. Similarly, if you’re checking a wooden-bodied plane, set the wedge and blade to a pressure suitable for use. Turn the plane upside down and support as much of the body as you can. Unlikely as it sounds, a large plane such as a No. 7 can flex if only supported at each end. Shorter planes are less likely to, but supporting it close to the middle will give you the best reading. I wouldn’t recommend clamping your plane in a vise unless you are absolutely certain the jaws come together either parallel or with a top edge bias. If you’re comfortable with this, be sure to position the body low down in the jaws so the force is being directed through the sole and not just across the sides.
Now place the straightedge along the length of the sole and look for any gaps. Having a raking light helps. If you can see light between the two, select the nearest-size feeler gauge and see if you can wiggle it into the gap without causing the straightedge to move. Keep inserting thicker blades (singularly and not stacked) until you meet with resistance that’s likely to topple the straightedge. The only place where a gap is desirable is directly behind the mouth. Anywhere else and you have a problem. Readings will vary depending on the size of plane you’re testing but an acceptable reading for a No. 5 jack plane can be 0.002″ without seriously affecting your work. The same reading on a longer plane suggests that it is flatter given that the deviation is spread over a longer distance.
It’s worth mentioning that in engineering terms what you’ve carried out is pretty crude compared to the checks carried out in a commercial manufacturing facility. In truth, there’s little comparison – but for woodworking and for less than $120, what you’ve achieved is perfectly adequate but more important, repeatable.