Planing a board of any width and length by hand, so that it will be true, need not call for any special talent on the part of a patternmaker, yet tradition and bigotry are responsible for the survival of the belief that expert handling of “winding strips” furnishes the only correct means of planing a board surface out of wind.
As this apparently hard-and-fast shibboleth has still many adherents, an attempt to shatter the long established belief and practice is at best but a thankless task. The use of “winding strips” is so manifestly unnecessary that the chief wonder to any thinking man is, that the use of them didn’t “die abornin’.” (more…)
I took a vacation day on Friday, ostensibly to work on my kitchen rehab – but my lunch “meeting” and shopping trip were a great deal more fun than installing a sub-floor and leveling cabinets. Chris and I met at Tom+Chee for grilled cheese and tomato soup, then ambled the few blocks down to one of my favorite places in Cincinnati: Ohio Book Store.
With five floors of used books, it’s the perfect place to search for 1930s novels to use as exemplars for the design and production choices for Roy Underhill’s forthcoming book, “Calvin Cobb – Radio Woodworker! A Novel with Measured Drawings.”
Because Roy’s book will feature illustrations, we spent a most of our limited time (we were both parked at 1-hour meters) perusing the shelves in the “juvenile” section, thinking books therein would be most like the look we want…not that we yet know exactly what that look is.
The content of the volumes didn’t matter to us at all; they just had to look good. But rest assured – we weren’t just judging the books by their covers – we also judged their bindings, typography and layout. (Don’t worry; we’ll skip the self-destructing acid paper common in the period – that’s a verisimilitudinal* step too far).
I think we got four books for less than $20, each of which had things we liked and things we didn’t – or things we loved but are likely impractical (inked edges on the pages, for example). We’ll pass these along to the designer for inspiration…a hand-off I’m hopeful will come soon, so she or he can get started on the layout and font selection.
I mentioned last week that I’ve the updated manuscript in hand, and I’ve now completed a full read-through and have just a couple of questions for Roy. The next step is to talk with Roy about my notes and any additional edits he wants to make, then fact-check all dates, building names, numbers etc., and finalize the illustrator. We’ll be working on the drawings alongside layout, leaving blank pages where the art will later be dropped in.
Right now, we’re on schedule to have it edited, illustrated, printed, bound and on its way to you well before the end of the year.
Stools that have an X-frame for the base are some of the oldest pieces of seating furniture (aside from a stump and buttocks). Sometimes called a “curule,” they were, quite literally the seat of power in Roman times.
These X-style seats have long been produced in metal and wood and were very common campaigning items, according to the Army & Navy Co-Operative Society catalogs. The stool shown above is featured in the 1907 catalog and cost 2 shillings and 1 pence (the catalog entry is shown on page 304 of my book, “Campaign Furniture”).
Thanks to dumb luck, I acquired one of these stools for $25 and have been traveling with it every since. It is remarkable.
When assembled, the stool is 16” high, 15” wide and 8” deep. It can hold my weight (and more) with ease. When knocked down, it is 12” x 8” x 1-1/2”. The stool weighs less than 4 lbs.
I’m bringing this stool, my Douro chair and some pieces of furniture I built to the Lie-Nielsen Hand Tool Event in Charleston, S.C. Details are here. On the day before the event, I’m giving a free lecture on the origins of campaign furniture at the American College of the Building Arts. The public is welcome. Details on that lecture are here.
The first campaign chest I built I used sledge feet – simple square blocks that raised the lower case off the ground.
Soon after, I received a pleasant note stating that I had made an amateur mistake. Campaign chests with sledge feet were merely missing their turned feet.
I felt like a fool at first. It was like sculpting a female torso and leaving off the naughty bits. After recovering from my shame, I started looking around at original source material.
First I checked my copies of the Army & Navy Co-Operative Society catalogs. Sure enough, all the chests shown in my copies had turned feet that screwed into blocks in the bottom of the lower chest unit.
But something else nagged at me.
As you know, we love old paintings and drawings here at Lost Art Press. Thanks to Jeff Burks, Suzanne Ellison and our own efforts, we have amassed many hundreds of images relating to woodworking from Roman times to the present. These are important, if sometimes flawed, documents that are as important as written, if sometimes flawed, accounts.
An Officer’s Quarters at Newry, Northern Ireland, C. 1870
So I began scanning my library of paintings and drawings relating to campaign furniture. Sure enough, I immediately found several that showed campaign chests in use on their sledge feet – no turned feet.
There are several explanations: The turned feet were still in the lower drawer or had been destroyed by bugs or water. Or perhaps the owner of the chest was lazy or didn’t care for the feet. Or perhaps that chest was made without the turned feet.
No matter what the explanation, don’t feel like you are wrong if you don’t include them on your chest. Personally, I really like the feet, but some people are turned off by turning.
In 2004, I purchased my first-ever custom anything. A handplane. It was a ridiculous financial move.
I had two young daughters (age 7 and 2), a low-level editing job and almost no disposable income. Lucy and I were throwing every dollar at our mortgage so we could be debt-free and able to do something uber-nutty – like run an independent publishing business.
But after meeting toolmaker Wayne Anderson, I became obsessed with the miter planes he builds. Somehow I scraped up $800 and ordered one. When I finally received the tool, I was overjoyed. It was one of the most beautiful tools I had ever seen, much less owned.
A few months later, thieves at a woodworking show outside Philadelphia stole the plane from my workbench. I was working our booth alone for a short period. Someone distracted me by making a ruckus at one end of the booth. When I turned back around, the plane was gone. (Read about it here in the WoodCentral archives.)
Insurance covered the theft, but I was bummed because they stole my favorite tool. Lots of things get stolen at woodworking shows – I’ve lost mallets, marking gauges, combination squares and (of course) books. I’ve actually had it easy. Some vendors have lost cash boxes with thousands of dollars inside.
To help in the hunt for the plane, Wayne actually stopped making that model, which made it difficult for the thief to fence it on the legitimate market. And Wayne put the word out with his customers and fellow collectors to watch for the tool.
Lo and behold, the plane turned up last week. And just like a stolen sports car, the tool was a wreck when it was recovered. The miter had been caught in a flood and the steel parts were deeply corroded. The brass sides were heavily tarnished and the iron was a bubbly mass of iron oxide. The most unusual fact: It hadn’t been sharpened in 10 years. I could recognize my edge on the tool.
But even in that sorry state, the plane was still fricking beautiful.
I worked out a deal with the plane’s honest new owner to trade another plane for the miter. And today the miter arrived.
After I unpacked it, I took the photos for this blog entry and began stabilizing the rust and damage. I have a long restoration process ahead of me, but it’s going to be satisfying work. Some of the damage is irreversible, but that’s OK with me. We all get a few scars in life.
As for the whole story, you’ll have to forgive my obliqueness. The above text is all I can really tell you. I’m not one to seek out justice, revenge or punishment for stealing a tool. So this is really the end of the story – until the miter is creating beautifully polished surfaces again.
