And indeed it is one solid staircase even without any further support from the walls. A lively load of 400 lbs caused only slight vibrations. I will attach the centers of the stringers to three wall studs on either side for absolutely no wiggle. The house can be blown away, but this staircase might remain standing!
This is oak that I bought from a local sawmill that custom cut it to order. It's been air dried tor three years stickered in my garage. The treads and risers are rough cut on the cart. I trued up the bull nose with a Stanly 45 hand plane fitted with a blade and round shoe for the purpose. It worked SO slick...just a few strokes and the edge was perfect on all 15 treads. Next up was stringer fitting and routing. I put finish on the exposed parts before assembly and the sixth picture is a milestone of stringers in temporary position ready to measure final length for treads and risers. Gonna hafta move the truck. It's a bit of a Chinese puzzle to assemble this between two walls. The outer wall stud #1 will have to be installed before any risers and treads are put together because the top of the stud will be behind the stringer.. Part of the solution to the puzzle is to build the second wall as the assembly permits. The other part is to put in the top two treads and one riser while the assembly is pushed up into the room above. The bottom tread and riser will require the assembly to be lifted at the foot high enough to slip the bottom riser into position. Then the entire assembly dropped into position and secured, finish studding the wall and slip 1/2" sheetrock between the stringer and studs with 1/8" clearance. The rest of the pre-finished treads and risers can then be installed from under the staircase. With full dados on treads and risers, pocket screws and glued wedges, this is going to be one SOLID staircase, never to squeak.
And indeed it is one solid staircase even without any further support from the walls. A lively load of 400 lbs caused only slight vibrations. I will attach the centers of the stringers to three wall studs on either side for absolutely no wiggle. The house can be blown away, but this staircase might remain standing!
This is a Monadnock pattern cuckoo clock from Klockit. I like the design because it is reminiscent of the traditional chalet so often seen in vintage cuckoo clocks The delicate scroll work around it enhances the design and made it very rewarding to do the scroll saw work. It is made from walnut grown near my home town which contributes to the special-ness of the gift. It is very three dimensional. While the clock is a quartz regulated electronic movement, the cuckoo sound is reproduced from a recording of the real cuckoo bird in the wild. I'm sure that this will be treasured for many generations, even if the clock fails! And it's clear that granddaughter got the "good looking" genes from someone else!
This is a time of year to appreciate and evaluate as well as celebrate. May you have wisdom, discernment and a productive year ahead!
(A picture is worth a thousand words, but which one?)
Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year.
It has been awhile since I posted anything here. It has been awhile since I've been in the shop to do anything significant. This project came about because it's getting close to Christmas and my wife's Indian doll collection was in disarray. A display case seemed the logical conclusion. Made from recycled glass and a quartersawn red oak base, I used a magical glass adhesive called Nano470. Put a thin bead on the edge of the glass and "cure" it for about three minutes with a standard fluorescent light. The joint becomes stronger than the glass itself.
Some time ago I received a call from a woodworking friend asking me to come to his shop to share some advice. The caller was Harold Steele, a well known farmer in the area of my home town and known to the nation as a former president of the national Farm Bureau. He had spent several years in Washington D.C. working with the Department of Agriculture and even meeting a few times face to face with President Nixon. Harold retreated to his well equipped wood shop to find relief from the stress of the job. Now retired (again) he spent much of his time in the shop and I never passed up an invitation to go there. Not many were invited to his shop. This call sought help for a project beyond his experience.
A friend of his had asked Harold to build two benches. These were to be placed in strategic places around the friends unbelievably extensive Lionel train layout, a layout big enough to run 27 trains at once with plenty of room to spare.. The friend wanted something that resembled depot benches, a very appropriate thought for the occasion. So when I understood the situation I suggested that we go to the train depot in Princeton (IL) to see if any of the old benches were still there. We were delighted to see a solitary bench in its original state.
There was no one around in the still functioning original depot so I immediately got to work with ruler, pencil, and camera documenting the size and shape of the beautiful and graceful bench. It was curvy, comfortable and inviting, solid oak with arm rests and no pads. It was also double sided, i.e. the bench had two seats sharing a common back. Our benches were to be single sided. So I crawled underneath to document the supporting structures and noting how they could be modified to be a strong single bench. I had been under there long enough that Harold sought relief by sitting down at one end of the bench with his back to one of the main entrance doors. When the heavy door swung open, its tired hinges squeaked enough to draw my attention to a mans shoes entering the depot. He swung around in front of Harold and I heard them exchange greetings as old familiar friends. There was a pause at the end of the pleasantries and then the visitor asked “What are you doing here?” Without missing a beat, Harold replied “I'm waiting for a train because I'm running away from Margie.” (Marge is his well known wife of nearly 70 years!) I smiled to myself and started to grin as the silence extended into a very awkward social moment. “What's this?” I heard the visitor ask, distracted. It was clear that he had spotted my feet sticking out from under the bench. I heard the bench creak as Harold shifted his weight to lean forward and look, as if he hadn't paid much attention to the unusual situation. “I don't know. He was here when I got here and he hasn't moved much. I think it is one of the town drunks sleeping it off.” Again a long awkward silence as I stifled my urge to laugh out loud. Quietly the visitor tendered “I didn't know Princeton had a town drunk.” Quickly Harold leaned back saying loudly “There are more town drunks in this town than I care to talk about.” By that time, I had all the information I could learn, so I finished dusting the floor with the back of my shirt, pulled myself out and rolled over onto my knees, facing Harold and the visitor with a silly grin on my face, and dusted my shirt off a bit. “Well!” Harold blurted. “I see he has sobered up enough to introduce him to you.” I grinned, shook my head and stood up to properly shake hands with a new friend as Harold introduced us.
We quickly left the ancient depot, leaving the graceful old bench to its solitary watch for trains and visitors to build a couple of sturdy replicas for a similar purpose. We left with school boy spring in our steps giggling about the charade we had just witnessed.
These lamps (there is a pair, second matching not shown) were inspired by an article in Woodsmith magazine. They are tricky to build mostly because the fit between glass and wood is very tight tolerance. The shade harp was purchased as recommended, but it is about 2" short. We can't reach the switch easily. because the space between the shade and wood is too tight. The low shade makes the lamp look disproportionately squat. That is easily remedied by a taller harp or adjusting the threaded post that holds the harp. That requires disassembling the lamp and gets involved.
The switch is special because there are two bulbs that operate independently as shown below.
Had the privilege to spend five days in the home of an Amish family in Springs PA. What a treat for a farm boy. The host farm is in the foot hills of the Negro Mountain, so very little of it is flat, about half tillable. There is a tiny shallow coal vein running under part of the farm, but they still burn wood. A tornado took out most of the maple trees from which they had been harvesting sugar water to process into syrup. They have a "sugar camp" on their farm, which is their name for the buildings and equipment used to make the syrup. That process is idle while new trees mature. They raise white tail deer for release in certain hunting grounds. I despise the animals for the damage they do, but it was kinda special to have a fawn suckle my fingers and touch the velvet antlers of a 30 point buck! On Sunday I rode to church with them in their buggy which is not for the faint of heart on the twisty, narrow roads. It took about an hour to go the 10 miles. The church service was 3 hours long and conducted in high German. The hymns were sung a capella in a slow cadence where each syllable of the word was pronounced as a complete word and spanned several notes. All the words of all the hymns were sung to the same sequence of notes, a tune my host later showed me in a hymn book. It had the flavor of an old Gregorian chant. The church was full and about half were teenagers or younger. Men on one side, women on the other. Preaching appeared to be extemporaneous, and the two speakers and two prayer leaders covered two hours, the first hour being filled with the singing of four hymns. On Sunday evening, popcorn was popped on the old cook stove and served with canned grape juice drink. That took me back to my earliest childhood memories.
The occasion was for a funeral that local Amish wanted to attend. A family was out picking berries in the woods, and a storm came up suddenly. They took shelter under some trees, the mother and daughters under one tree and the husband and sons under another. It was so sad because the entire family witnessed the lightning strike kill their mother just feet from them.
I had the occasion to visit about three woodworking shops, a shoe makers shop, a harness shop, several grocery stores, and a produce auction market. Miracle of miracles, at one of the wood shops they had a Hawker dowel making machine that was in disrepair and stored in a barn. It was pretty rough, but I've since learned that it would be worth about $8,000 fully restored, even though it was made in the early part of the last century. May have to go back if we can agree on a price! I've been struggling with how to make smooth and proper round dowels.
The entire farm was supported by one big diesel motor that ran a line shaft powering an air compressor, a vacuum pump , a low voltage generator for charging batteries, a refrigerant compressor, and probably some more stuff. Compressed air was stored in huge tanks (about 10,000 gal est), to run tools and the well pump. Vacuum was used for the milkers. Refrigerant was used for the bulk dairy tank and a "cooler" shed that had huge vats of water that froze around the edges when the contraption ran for the three hour chore time twice a day.
Yes, they work hard for what they have and they are frugal. They are rich both financially and spiritually, though you would never know by looking at their unpainted houses and "neglected" buildings. All transactions are cash and no one is in debt for anything. No mortgage, nothing. Family time has the highest priority next to God, and there are large families of very well behaved, respectful, very shy, very helpful, bright and happy children. I never witnessed a harsh word spoken to anyone, and if there was a problem with a member of the community, it was spoken about with a sad heart and kind words. I left grateful for the opportunity to experience their lifestyle and wishing that all the world could be like that!
A pet peeve of mine is the notion that you can always do better. In my humble opinion this continuous improvement pressure, either from within or external, leads to various sorts of calamities. It's a vehicle with a stuck accelerator. I'm an eye witness.
You can always do change, but different is not always better. Don't confuse me by not distinguishing carefully between the normally hierarchical concepts of “change” and “better”. Wisdom is to know the difference. Now, I will admit that better is a subset of change. So is worse. Separating better from worse may be a lot like separating heat from cold. There are upper limits in both directions. You can do it, but there is a natural balance that WILL be reached in spite of the effort. Guess who controls that balance.
Example one: a company with a continuous improvement policy insists that things could be better at every level and every process. So they embark on an endless circuit of changes many times without regard to respecting the wisdom, experience and success of the past. It takes a great deal of time and money to make changes to a process or structure. Endless changes to management structure are at best confusing and usually counterproductive. Many times a given change is productive, i.e. it produces more than it cost. If not, no matter, we'll just raise the selling price. No wonder the cost of things accelerates beyond inflation rates. I've never seen a company change their policy when they reach a point of diminishing returns, i.e. when it costs more than it produces. At some point, the company is caught up in an endless chain of expensive changes to their structure, processes and even their product and unless a brave heart calls out to stop at the point of diminishing returns, the company's momentum drives it into oblivion.
How many times have you bought a well thought out tool that is effective, durable, efficient in your environment only to find that its replacement has been “improved” to the point of near uselessness? I'm not sure that our basic transportation, the automobile, has actually experienced major improvement, especially in recent years. Why do electric windows help us get to where we want to go more efficiently? Self locking? Sunroof? Electric mirrors? They don't. In fact they are counterproductive by taking energy from an already inefficient system and raising the cost. Granted, current cars may be way better than alternative transportation in comfort and convenience, but in the long run are they really better at transportation? The calamity is that now in this economy we have exceedingly expensive automobiles that bury people in debt and that do very little better than their predecessors at getting us around every day.
I have never understood why redesigning almost the entire automobile each year is an “improvement”. I have for a long time been enamored with the example set by Volkswagen when they introduced a user serviceable automobile that was efficient and reliable. And most uniquely, very little changed from year to year. Look at the costs that were saved by reusing so many processes and designs. They had a very popular car because it was inexpensive to own and operate. Public opinion voted it out of existence when it ceased to be cute, but the efficiency in the manufacturing was an important lesson to our economy. Massive change is not always the best overall.
Example two: an employee is doing an outstanding job, yet is put under continuous pressure to do better. Need more hustle, but instead they get burnout because wisdom does not intercede. More than once I've seen a point of diminishing returns reached very quickly. The employee either “burns out” or quits to protect himself. Then the short sighted company is faced with the expense of replacement. Not so good for any one's economy.
There is no such place as perfection and the notion of reaching it by continuous improvement is ludicrous. Just as you cannot ever reach your destination by going half way to it every day, you cannot reach anything better than close enough. Let's get honest and call it what it is! Close enough. Good job, well done. Allow the sense of achievement. Instead of rewarding steady, highly productive employees, we reward the losers taking advantage of the constant changes. The unsteady, unpredictable nature of high pressure to improve leads to a very unstable, undesirable work environment that few self motivated people can tolerate. It's just foolishness. Ever try to drive a flat head screw into a hard surface with no pilot hole? High pressure just isn't going to do it. Turning round and round at different angles just isn't going to do it either. There is an established procedure that leads to success every time and wise people follow it closely. Screws have been redesigned thousands of ways, but the wisdom of the established procedure has yet to be improved,-- c
I was attending my younger sister's funeral surrounded by family and the larger family of God amongst whom she worked in Oakland California. For more years than I can count she was a teacher administrator in a large Christian private school. She was well known for justice and fairness and it didn't matter to her who it was that was out of line—she would go about setting it right, usually quite aggressively. She was especially aggressive if there was an underdog involved. So over the years she gained the high regard of students, teachers, administrators and parents because she made it clear it was done in love. Everyone knew what she meant when she said “All he needs is a pat on the head. With a shovel.” She was there long enough to see former students send their own kids and grand kids to learn from Mrs. Fix.
She was known as Mrs. Fix. No one seemed even to know her first name, Ethel. It was always and forever Mrs. Fix this and Mrs. Fix that. Everyone, administrators, coworkers, friends, and parents knew her as Mrs. Fix. Looking back I realize now that it must have been an unconscious association. She fixed people. They were going to sorely miss her. Who would see that the books were ordered, delivered to the right room, and organized? Who would fight for the underdog or straighten out the unruly ones in such a motherly way that they WANTED to behave? Who would battle the “system” to change unfairness or neglect?
The minister who conducted the solemn proceedings, which was held in an over-flowing large auditorium, finished the lengthy eulogy where I learned much more about Ethel than she communicated back home. I was in awe of the respect and honor they gave her. Then he announced that the floor was open to anyone who wanted to share their experiences with Mrs. Fix or how she affected their life. In the embarrassingly long and heavy pause that followed there were sniffles and stifled sobs. The pastor encouraged them again. Still no response. I began to wonder if there was something that the family was supposed to do that was undone yet and they were respectfully waiting. I looked at her husband Bud and two daughters, Cheryl and Cynthia, but they just shrugged. A third time the pastor was almost pleading. I couldn't bear it any longer. These people needed to hear the rest of the story. Without any notion of what I was going to say or how I was going to say it, I stood up. A path was made and I soon found myself looking at hundreds and hundreds of people, still with no idea what to say. To buy time, I turned slowly to the pastor and thanked him for the wonderful words he spoke about Mrs. Fix. Then the spark happened.
“I am Mrs. Fix's baby brother, Danny. I, of course, knew her as just Ethel.” I started. There was an audible gasp as people heard me say the unknown (or forbidden) name. “I've already told the pastor how much I appreciated all the nice things he had to say about her and about how much you admired and respected her. But I knew a whole different person.” The tension broke and the place roared with laughter. “I thought you might like to hear a story from our childhood that speaks to her character in a very different way. You see, being the youngest of four children, I had certain privileges, one of which was sleeping in Ethel's bed room. I was, and still am, afraid of the dark.” (chuckles) “So she took me under her protective custody when I was but four years old.” (heads were nodding in recognition) “Mom permitted this situation as long as I agreed to help clean the room. That was a no brainer. How hard could that be? Well, Ethel didn't get meticulous over the years...she was born that way. And I began to reconsider the bargain. I tried HARD to make it though the whole night in my own room, but I ALWAYS bawled my way back to the twin bed next to Ethel, where she would inevitably comfort me until I fell asleep. Even the boogey man was afraid of Mrs. Fix!” (much laughter)
“The day of regular cleaning dawned as any other day would. After breakfast we were sent upstairs to do our chores and “clean the room”. Ethel's notion of “clean the room” differed from mine so much that we began to pester each other as siblings do. Finally Ethel had had enough and clobbered me with a pillow. Not to be outdone, I walked nonchalantly around to my bed, pretended to do something until she was busy, grabbed my pillow and sneaked back around while she was bent down, back turned, tucking in her sheets. I waited until just the right moment when she straightened up and let it fly with all my might. With a slight movement of her hand she caught the pillow deflecting the blow and began to pummel me with it. It was no contest. What chance does a five year old have against a 14 year old? I was melting with laughter under the blows which kept raining down until I was a helpless heap on the floor. The blows still rained down and I realized I wasn't getting better. With all my strength I tried to grasp the pillow, but I just couldn't hang on. Finally a blow to the face allowed me to catch a corner of the pillow in my teeth. I thought 'Now I've got you', but it wasn't to be. She gave an irresistible pull on an unmovable pillow and it ripped.”
“Now you need to know that our pillows were not like today's polyester filled puff balls. Mom had carefully crafted these treasured pillows from muslin ticking and stuffed them full of downy feathers from our chickens. They are the most comfortable pillows ever, and they are GREAT for pillow fights.”
“On this occasion, however, the muslin now many years aged, gave way to a large tear. The entire room filled with tiny feathers and the corner of the pillowcase was in my mouth with feathers sticking out all around it. Ethel fell apart laughing as I tried to take advantage of her moment of weakness and pummeled her some more with the broken pillowcase, emptying it into the room until we could hardly see each other. It resembled one of those paperweight scenes that you shake to make dense snow fly. Meanwhile, Mom had heard the commotion and was outside the door before we could compose ourselves. I wish you could have seen Mom's face as she opened the door to scold us for the raucous noise and prod us to finish cleaning. Her mouth was open to speak firmly, but her eyes lighted on my mouth with feathers still sticking out of it. Slowly, in one of those extended moments, she closed her mouth, bit her lip and with the greatest of determination not to laugh in front of us backed out the door. Upon closing the door we heard 'You..are not...finished until...every last feather (more suppressed giggle only louder) is cleaned up'.”
By this time the audience was laughing out loud, some with tears in their eyes. It was clear they appreciated hearing about the family side of Mrs. Fix. I can't tell you how many persons came to me at exit thanking me for telling that story to make them laugh. They indicated they had never imagined that Mrs. Fix could do such a thing!
The dam was broken and for the better part of another hour people kept coming to share story after story of how Ethel had changed their lives. What better way to enter eternity than with the recommendation of hundreds of people whose lives you've touched.
There are few memories as vivid as the few I recall from preschool years. Corn Picker Fixin's is one and here is another.
Before we moved to Princeton in 1950, we lived northeast of Princeton IL on a farm Dad referred to as the Johnny Husser farm. Dad rented it for several years before I was born in 1944. I attended a one room school house ½ mile east for first grade. It was called the Wofesburger (phonetic spelling) school. Not good for a password because I still can't spell it correctly. Miss Kinter taught all eight grades to about 10 kids including my boyhood buddy, Snuffy Petersen. My youngest sister was nine years older than I, so no siblings. Yes, you guessed it, it was up hill both ways and had 30” of snow in July. Actually it was a pleasant walk down the “main” road to the far end of the field where the corn picker broke down. Ah, yes, the corn picker. It had an interesting introduction to our operation, and that is the subject of this memory.
It must have been shortly after my birthday in July because I was playing with a new toy, a John Deere manure spreader that I had desperately wanted. I had seen it on display at the implement dealer where Dad got stuff fixed. The reason that I was so intrigued with it was because it WORKED! It wasn't perfect because it didn't have any bed chains to drag the load to the beaters, but the beaters were ground driven just like the real thing! Metal toys were very rare during the war years. Toys of any sort were rare in my early years. I had a wooden tractor, wooden wagon, and the MANURE SPREADER! Can you imagine kids today getting excited about a manure spreader? Many wouldn't even know what manure is and if they did they certainly wouldn't understand why anyone would want to spread it around. Anyway, I was playing with it in the front yard on a beautiful summer day when I heard it.
The Farmall M tractors made a unique sound that was strong but mellow. A rich sound of power. The wind was such that I could hear it long before I could see it. Suddenly it appeared on the main road chased by a huge dust cloud. I didn't recognize our tractor buried under the new two row mounted picker, but there was my brother Donald standing at the wheel as he slowed to turn into the driveway. He finally got the dragon stopped before the barnyard gate where I was already headed. As I released the chain to open the gate Don leaned over and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, “Where's Dad?” I was innocent of any intrigue in this matter so I pointed to the barn. “Open the corn crib doors for me!”. So I set off on a run to the crib, but the tractor was so much faster, that he had dismounted (no small feat) and had the doors open before I got there. “Go get ready for dinner!” was the next instruction. It all sounded so urgent. Unusual. I was almost to the house when Don shot past me into the house. Well, the sink would be busy, so there was no longer any hurry. I turned around just in time to see Dad come out of the barn and head toward the house. I never saw him turn his head or eyes, but he stopped midway across the barnyard and jerked his head up. Something wasn't right. Slowly he scanned the barnyard and finally his gaze stopped at the corn crib. I moved back down the walk to be able to see what he saw, and there it was. The dragon's tail was sticking out from between the doors! It was too long and tall to fit into the crib alley. It looked like an ostrich with it's head stuck in the sand in the midst of danger.
Dad's fury was well known to those who knew him. As he came through the gate, he carefully closed it. It actually stayed latched. Very rare. I began to piece together that Don must be in REALLY BIG TROUBLE! Dad brushed past me with his jaw set. There was going to be a bad hair day for somebody! Well, the sink would be busy for awhile longer and I didn't want to get wet, so I dwaddled for a bit. I was the last to the table. Dinner was at noon, the big meal, on the farm. I don't remember what the meal consisted of that day, but I do remember the unusual quiet. Not a word. It had to be the quiet before the storm.
After dinner, Don and Dad retreated to the barnyard, headed in the general direction of the crib. Dad opened the doors, and proceeded to make loud noises at Donald. I had no interest in the new vocabulary, so I hung back for awhile. Harvest wasn't too far off, so the pressures of preparation were upon us. After a bit, I noticed that the events in the crib were more civil, so I ventured out to see the dragon. I inadvertently became a part of the ensuing and long running argument because they had gotten back to how harvest would be affected by the dragon. In short, Dad was convinced that there would never be a picker as good as the New Holland that he dragged around with the SC Case tractor (which I could drive well by now because it had a hand clutch). Donald was convinced that opening a field by hand was too labor and time consuming.
Now for those of you non-farmer readers, opening a field was tedious manual labor where the first two rows next to the fence were picked by hand and the ears tossed over the creeping tractor into the trailing wagon. All was good until the wagon got full. Without planning, you could literally trap yourself and that was embarrassing at best. It could take almost a week to open a good sized field. Hands and tempers would get sore. Some farmers would simply trample the corn in the first two rows and try to salvage the mess later when there was space to go around the field clockwise. In a big field (100+ acres), that was a high price to pay. Too high for Dad.
So the argument went like this. Donald told Dad that he would pick the north and west fields and be done with less corn on the ground before Dad could pick the east field. Dad could even have Danny to help him. How generous!
That year, harvest was quick with two pickers going. Don worked by himself. Because the picker was mounted, opening a field was trivial, as long as you didn't get stuck with a full wagon where you couldn't turn around. He could even unload the wagon by himself because he used the wagon with hydraulic dump (a recent invention). On the other hand, Dad and I laboriously opened the east field. When the picker could finally be used, and the wagon got full, it became a matter of unhooking the wagon, then the picker and re-hooking up the wagon so the tractor could drag it to the chain hoist. The chain hoist was a steel bridge and a chain winch which lifted the front of a “standard” wagon to dump the load. So after positioning the wagon under the hoist, unhook the wagon and position the tractor so the power take off (PTO) could run the hoist. Reverse the procedure and repeat ad nauseum. About a week into the harvest, it became abundantly clear that Donald would be helping us in the east field before long. Dad's temperament turned cloudy, then dark. Late in the evening, he walked the entire north and west fields looking for evidence of corn left behind. Begrudgingly he admitted it “wasn't too bad”. So harvest was completed early, and Donald had more time for his “girl”. I think her name was Jackie, or something like that.
Now another interesting bit. Years later, when Dad was living in Amboy Rehab and in his 97th year or so, he told me a story I had never heard. It seems that Donald' pre-emptive action was genetic! Here is what Dad told me.
Grandpa Amos was stubborn, a trait he inherited from my Dad. The new-fangled things called tractors could never replace horses for farming. They cost too much to feed and maintain compared to a horse team. Keep in mind that gasoline, or parafin oil (for diesels) could be had for well less than a pricey $0.10 per gallon. Nevertheless, Dad got the wants.
One day very early he showed up on the Manlius farm homestead driving a brand new tractor. Neither of us could remember what brand it might have been, but it was gas powered. He hooked it to the plow before Grandpa could get the team ready and headed for the back 40 acres. With no plow to work with, he guessed Grandpa Amos did some of the other always present work. Come dinner time at noon, Dad pulled the plow into the farmyard, unhooked the tractor and put it away. Grandpa came over and asked him what was broken. “Nothing's broken. I'm done with the field”. Dinner was delayed because Grandpa walked back to the 40 to examine it and verify that it was “done”. He was aghast. He must not have hurried back, because dinner was very late, cold even. The comment made by Grandpa must have made quite an impression on Dad, because he remembered it for over 70 years! “I never thought I would live to see the day”.
Dan is an experienced woodworker who is anxious to make an heirloom of the future for you.