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Dress Code

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">I had a friend who had a bad habit of going into his shop and working in good clothes. His sainted wife was the individual in charge of keeping him supplied with dress khakis and blue button-down Oxford shirts.<br>She also was in charge of repairing the abuses he inflicted on them.<br>He would get grease stains on the pants from the 1929 Rolls he was restoring. The daubs of model paint from the models he constructed for clients went on the Oxford shirts. Precise to a fault in his work, his focus did not extend to the hand rubbing off a bit of glue on his pants leg.<br>All this is OK if you have someone to scrape the glue bits off, place stain remover on stains, and grease dissolver on grease. And, by the way, she folded and hung up too.<br>Since I habitually wear the grodiest jeans and torn t-shirts in my wardrobe when in the shop, I have no issues with this sort of thing. A bit of extra glue on my jeans doesn't make a bit of difference. It may even help things hang together for a while longer.<br>My wife doesn't touch my laundry. I was firmly taught as a youth to do my own.<br>However, one evening when both couples were together, laundry notes were compared, and tally's made. I was up by five points over my friend for not soiling good clothing, and doing my laundry. On the other hand, I went down five points when my wife pointed out my bad habit of running towels through the wash in the same load as clothing. I was now even with my friend, who had lost the same number of points. I was up five points again when it came out that I put my clothes away and hung up shirts and pants. My friend went down the same amount because he did neither. I snidely grinned. My wife then revealed that I never folded anything that I put away in the draws; I just shoved in the stuff. Back down again. It was my friend's turn to grin.<br>At last, our wives began to calculate our ill-begotten ways in terms of much it cost to buy all the detergent, bleach, and assorted goods. Because, after our loads were filthy and needed more attention. We both lost whatever positive points we had remaining and began to head into negative numbers.<br>Glancing at each other, we silently and wisely determined not to mention all the fabric softener, Woolite, and anti-static sheets that our spouses bought. Nor did we mention the number of delicate cycles used.<br>There were worse sins that could get tallied, and we had no desire to attract attention to them.I had a friend who had a bad habit of going into his shop and working in good clothes. His sainted wife was the individual in charge of keeping him supplied with dress khakis and blue button-down Oxford shirts.
She also was in charge of repairing the abuses he inflicted on them.
He would get grease stains on the pants from the 1929 Rolls he was restoring. The daubs of model paint from the models he constructed for clients went on the Oxford shirts. Precise to a fault in his work, his focus did not extend to the hand rubbing off a bit of glue on his pants leg.
All this is OK if you have someone to scrape the glue bits off, place stain remover on stains, and grease dissolver on grease. And, by the way, she folded and hung up too.
Since I habitually wear the grodiest jeans and torn t-shirts in my wardrobe when in the shop, I have no issues with this sort of thing. A bit of extra glue on my jeans doesn’t make a bit of difference. It may even help things hang together for a while longer.
My wife doesn’t touch my laundry. I was firmly taught as a youth to do my own.
However, one evening when both couples were together, laundry notes were compared, and tally’s made. I was up by five points over my friend for not soiling good clothing, and doing my laundry. On the other hand, I went down five points when my wife pointed out my bad habit of running towels through the wash in the same load as clothing. I was now even with my friend, who had lost the same number of points. I was up five points again when it came out that I put my clothes away and hung up shirts and pants. My friend went down the same amount because he did neither. I snidely grinned. My wife then revealed that I never folded anything that I put away in the draws; I just shoved in the stuff. Back down again. It was my friend’s turn to grin.
At last, our wives began to calculate our ill-begotten ways in terms of much it cost to buy all the detergent, bleach, and assorted goods. Because, after our loads were filthy and needed more attention. We both lost whatever positive points we had remaining and began to head into negative numbers.
Glancing at each other, we silently and wisely determined not to mention all the fabric softener, Woolite, and anti-static sheets that our spouses bought. Nor did we mention the number of delicate cycles used.
There were worse sins that could get tallied, and we had no desire to attract attention to them.

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Memento

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">The postal notice said it was the third attempt. I didn't remember any previous, so I trotted down to the post office before it closed to retrieve the unknown package. It was soft, Taped over thoroughly, and wrapped with string. I neither recognized the shipper's address nor the shipper's name. I asked the postal clerk if she was sure it was for me. She indicated my name and my address – "sign here." I signed.<br>Inside was my old backpack, my old fleece-lined denim jacket, and an odd assortment of small items I vaguely remembered owning. The last I member seeing this assortment of possessions had been in 1968, lost somewhere on one of my road trips to nowhere. A note, there must be a note? Here -<br>Dear Wes,<br>Nothing is ever truly lost. Between the stories, our mother told about you, and the two old letters from New York, we were able to locate your address on the internet. Mom would have loved to read the stories you've written. She would have wondered though why you never wrote about her. You really should, you know. Just before she passed, she asked that we locate you and return your pack and jacket. She was sorry afterward that she swiped them from you.The postal notice said it was the third attempt. I didn’t remember any previous, so I trotted down to the post office before it closed to retrieve the unknown package. It was soft, Taped over thoroughly, and wrapped with string. I neither recognized the shipper’s address nor the shipper’s name. I asked the postal clerk if she was sure it was for me. She indicated my name and my address – “sign here.” I signed.
Inside was my old backpack, my old fleece-lined denim jacket, and an odd assortment of small items I vaguely remembered owning. The last I member seeing this assortment of possessions had been in 1968, lost somewhere on one of my road trips to nowhere. A note, there must be a note? Here –
Dear Wes,
Nothing is ever truly lost. Between the stories, our mother told about you, and the two old letters from New York, we were able to locate your address on the internet. Mom would have loved to read the stories you’ve written. She would have wondered though why you never wrote about her. You really should, you know. Just before she passed, she asked that we locate you and return your pack and jacket. She was sorry afterward that she swiped them from you.

Betsy Hildegard

I pawed over the pack, the jacket, the assorted items, and the letter. I was grimly looking for the identity of the woman who had ordered this package sent to me. Nothing. Betsy Hildegard had been confident that I’d instantly recognize who her mom had been, and her great importance to me. No recall, no stories. Just unfair.

Then in one of the side pockets, I found a small note card envelope. Opening it here was the message: “Wes, Thanks for all the wonderful memories.”

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Communard

Kicked out. That’s right; I got kicked out of the commune I had joined. I was told I had issues with privacy and property. They were correct. Other people randomly invading what I thought of as private space, my bed, was beyond my comfort zone. My guitar was my only real possession, and having it used without permission set me off. The third and final time I found Donnie with it, I refrained from putting his lights out. But, he walked funny for a while. So yes, I was asked to depart by the commune’s council—the best decision.

As one of the few left who knew much about gardening, I left a deficit in the food-raising knowledge base of the community. Most of my fellow communards had trouble recognizing a carrot grown in soil. Their primary contact with vegetables had been a grocery store produce aisle.
I didn’t miss the political orientation sessions that were required attendance. As one of the few working-class kids, I tended to howl with laughter when the doctrinaire talked about encouraging the workers to join the coming revolution. I had tried to explain that in 1968 many of the white working class had a large enough slice of the pie that they felt no need to ruin things for themselves. They drove new cars, had union jobs, and their kids went to the state university. Also, there was not a lot of respect owed to 19-year-olds who had never worked in a mill, factory, or any job. For those folks to reject their current course, things would have to deteriorate incredibly.

My experience at the Internationale farm shoved me firmly into the camp of being a recovering anarchist. Not being one to hold my feeling in, I shared my opinions. At my favorite drinking establishment, the wise heads of the Harvard Gardens sagely nodded in agreement. Visiting our table that evening was Sol. Sol was a veteran of the Spanish Civil War, an experienced community organizer, a former communist, and a local ward heeler for the Democratic organization. After letting me blather on for a while, Sol looked up from what had to be his tenth beer and said to us, ” Listen, guys. Mao’s Little Red Book is all good and excellent, but hard work wins the day, not airy theory. To mangle Napoleon – Determination is to Doctrine as two to one.”

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Operations

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">The Operating Room is a different sort of place to work in, and the people who work there can be different too. I spent about nine years all told working in Operating Rooms, and a substantial bit of my education money came from working there. It was by turns the friendliest, and most stressful environment I have ever worked in.<br>When I left graduate school, It took a few years to find work as an anthropologist. I spent most of that time working as an Operating Room Technician and scrubbing on a wide variety of cases. I'd have to say that the people I worked with and the experiences I garnered made a lasting impression on me.<br>My last year in the OR provided me with an enduring memory. Around Christmas, only the most necessary surgery gets booked. Nobody wants to convalesce from elective surgery during the holidays. Things slow down in the OR, but work continues with jobs that always need doing to keep the OR a safe environment. Still, there is time for a bit longer coffee breaks and lunches, and a party or two. Being an emergency could roll through the doors at any time, parties tend to be careful affairs. Wilder activities are for after hours and outside the confines of the hospital. This is about one of those events.The Operating Room is a different sort of place to work in, and the people who work there can be different too. I spent about nine years all told working in Operating Rooms, and a substantial bit of my education money came from working there. It was by turns the friendliest, and most stressful environment I have ever worked in.
When I left graduate school, It took a few years to find work as an anthropologist. I spent most of that time working as an Operating Room Technician and scrubbing on a wide variety of cases. I’d have to say that the people I worked with and the experiences I garnered made a lasting impression on me.
My last year in the OR provided me with an enduring memory. Around Christmas, only the most necessary surgery gets booked. Nobody wants to convalesce from elective surgery during the holidays. Things slow down in the OR, but work continues with jobs that always need doing to keep the OR a safe environment. Still, there is time for a bit longer coffee breaks and lunches, and a party or two. Being an emergency could roll through the doors at any time, parties tend to be careful affairs. Wilder activities are for after hours and outside the confines of the hospital. This is about one of those events.

So close to Christmas, no cases and everything buttoned up our OR supervisor “Miss Piggy” ( hey, she selected the nickname herself!) decided that the troops deserved to leave a bit early. After discussing what we wanted to do, it was agreed to take in an afternoon movie, and then head over to Boylston Street and our favorite restaurant ( the Half Shell). By unanimous vote, we all agreed we wanted to go see the Bob Guccione film, Caligula. For those not familiar with the film, it was definitely X rated.
Dutifully we all trouped into the theatre. Somewhere about five minutes into the film, my friend May starts talking about the physical improbability of the acts being committed. To my other side, Miss Piggy begins to suppress her laughter, which results in loud sniggers from Rob and Karen. Eventually, a very risque commentary, not suitable for discussion in this setting, starts accompanied by howls of laughter. Before we are ten minutes in, we are all commenting on the actor’s performances and anatomy.
At this point, theatre management intrudes, telling us that we’ll be asked to leave if we can’t quiet down. We calm down, but you can still hear snickering. Then, something so outrageous happens on the screen that we can’t contain ourselves. We all break out in howling laughter and obscene comments. That did it, we were expelled from watching an X rated movie. I’d like to say that we sulked out of the theatre in shame for our bad behavior, but we didn’t – we laughed and made pointed comments all the way to the exit.
We didn’t want to get booted from the Half Shell, so we kept our discussion to a quiet roar.

The last few days before Christmas were quiet, but at a hospital-wide New Year’s Eve party, the OR had the single most outrageous story to share of all the stories told that evening.

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A Cat’s Take On The Bible

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">A few years past, I was sitting in front of the woodstove. My black cat, Smidgen, was sitting purring in my lap. Once in a while, it was her habit to correct my take on life by sharing feline wisdom tidbits, black double pawed cats specifically. The formula followed was usually a reminder that her Ancestors had been gods in Eygpt. She told me That her family was from the most excellent line of ships cats ever to have landed in Newburyport. After all, wasn’t she from Neptune St. in Joppa?After the preliminaries, Smidgen proceeded to knit with her claws on my legs, purr, and correct the bible lesson from Genesis that the kids had had at Sunday School.<br>“Genesis! Those stupid males had all the details wrong. Sure it was seven days, and yes, the Garden was lovely, but as they say, the devil is in the details…”<br>OK, Smidge, how did it happen?<br>“Well, just like the Bible says, God created the heavens, the world, and all the creatures on it in six days. At last, God decided to create people. At that point, God thought creation was through and sat down to take a well-earned rest. Just like the book says that was on the seventh day. There God sat on a lovely hill, below a lovely tree, looking out on the Garden of Eden, and was just thrilled at how good it was for a rush job. But, then God realized that something critical was missing. Adam and Eve were playing with Spot their dog, there were the beautiful trees, and drop-dead gorgeous mountains, but something was missing. So God sat there leaning against the beautiful tree, and meditated on what was missing. For several hours God thought, and then looked up and cried out “cats! I forgot"cats!” then God created cats, in her image of course, and looked out upon the world, and said that it was good. So on the seventh day, God did get to rest with a purring kitty on the lap, knowing that now the world was perfect.”A few years past, I was sitting in front of the woodstove. My black cat, Smidgen, was sitting purring in my lap. Once in a while, it was her habit to correct my take on life by sharing feline wisdom tidbits, black double pawed cats specifically. The formula followed was usually a reminder that her Ancestors had been gods in Eygpt. She told me That her family was from the most excellent line of ships cats ever to have landed in Newburyport. After all, wasn’t she from Neptune St. in Joppa?After the preliminaries, Smidgen proceeded to knit with her claws on my legs, purr, and correct the bible lesson from Genesis that the kids had had at Sunday School.
“Genesis! Those stupid males had all the details wrong. Sure it was seven days, and yes, the Garden was lovely, but as they say, the devil is in the details…”
OK, Smidge, how did it happen?
“Well, just like the Bible says, God created the heavens, the world, and all the creatures on it in six days. At last, God decided to create people. At that point, God thought creation was through and sat down to take a well-earned rest. Just like the book says that was on the seventh day. There God sat on a lovely hill, below a lovely tree, looking out on the Garden of Eden, and was just thrilled at how good it was for a rush job. But, then God realized that something critical was missing. Adam and Eve were playing with Spot their dog, there were the beautiful trees, and drop-dead gorgeous mountains, but something was missing. So God sat there leaning against the beautiful tree, and meditated on what was missing. For several hours God thought, and then looked up and cried out “cats! I forgot”cats!” then God created cats, in her image of course, and looked out upon the world, and said that it was good. So on the seventh day, God did get to rest with a purring kitty on the lap, knowing that now the world was perfect.”

OK, Smidge, but what about Adam and Eve and the expulsion from the Garden. What about the Serpent?
Smidge sneered at me, no mean feat considering cats don’t don’t have proper lips to sneer with.
“Once again, you stupid two legs got it wrong. Catnip…it was all about catnip. God, being a superior being, had planted the Garden full of super-powerful nip. He forbade us, little guys, from sampling it. Being smart, and wanting to get blasted on Garden Gold, the senior cat approached Adam and Eve about cutting and curing us a secret supply. There was enough of that stuff to blast every cat into heaven a thousand times, and no one suspected that God would miss a little bit. The deal would have worked out fine except Spot, the little viper, went and told the boss. The boss was super peeved and found the curing shed with a couple of hundred bales down by the riverside. It got blasted with a lightning bolt. I tell you if cats could get high on burning nip we’d, we’d have stayed high for a few months. But no such luck, and soon we were all hightailing it out of the Garden with Spot running behind us; God’s not so fond of snitches either, so Spot got the boot too.”

Around that time, I woke up to a purring cat on my lap. “Smidge? Have you been telling silly stories again?” At first, she looked at me with a blank stare. Then she got up in a huff, insult showing in every movement. Down she jumped, hissed at me, and walked away with her tail held high.

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Fieldwork

When I lived on or traveled to coastal Maine in the seventies, I was tied closely to my wife’s home town by bonds created by that marriage. Back at the university, I was for studying for a career in anthropology. In Maine, I was understudying for the Cap’n on board his 34 foot ketch, being introduced as his son, and learning how to fit in.

It was not too long before seeking one led to studying the other.

There is an old and tired cartoon of natives scurrying to conceal Televisions and other tech items when one of their numbers spots a pair of anthropologists approaching – suitably attired of course in khaki and pith helmets. It plays on old stereotypes about the populations that anthropologists study and the anthropologists themselves. In Maine, the community I was about to study was interested in me much as I was in it.

At the Post Office, I got introduced to the bridgetender. Before I could get a word in edgewise, I was expertly pumped for my life history in New York, and how I liked it here on the coast. As I tried to shift the questioning my informant to be slid away to work. By evening everyone in town knew what the bridgetender knew. And so it went.

Things settled down after a few weeks, but I answered as many questions about myself as I asked about the community.

The Cap’n introduced me to a friend of his named Spinney. Spinney owned a small boatyard and decided that I’d do for a part-time hand. I began at the bottom scraping barnacles, sanding bottom paint and applying a new coat of the stuff to an endless succession of boats. When they discovered that I could carve, I received a promotion to Yaahd Cavah” ( Yard Carver), the guy who produces carved transom work, quarter boards, etc. But I also kept on scraping and painting bottoms.

One day one of the workers stopped and asked innocently enough: “hey Wes, you study anthropology. Can you explain to me what Eskimo kinship is?” Not seeing this coming, I paused, and in my best academic tone, began by explaining that it was the kinship used by most of us in the United States. Seeing some interest, I went into a bit of depth regarding kinship terms used. He asked some well-informed questions, and I enjoyed answering them.

This seemed to set a pattern over the next several weeks. Members of the crew would take an opportunity to ask me, sometimes penetrating questions about anthropology. How did balanced reciprocity systems work, and so on? I began to wonder about it, but not too hard. After answering their questions, they answered mine. But I found it more than a bit curious.

I found the answer quickly enough. I went into our rough and ready lunchroom, and there on the table sat the 1973 edition of Cultural Anthropology by Carol and Melvin Ember. Borrowed perhaps from a former student.

It was well thumbed through. I could now see where the questions had originated. The highlighted sections matched the questions they asked me. I had been subjected to the equivalent of an exam by the people I was interested in studying.

When the Cap’n didn’t keep me busy with his boat or Spinney finding bottoms to paint, I did find time to do some actual ethnography that year.

Years later, I took over a cultural anthropology course from a colleague who was leaving the state. Having inherited the course, I chose not to make any changes in the texts or reading lists. The textbook was Cultural Anthropology by Carol and Melvin Ember, with which I was by then very familiar.

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The Shop

I am forever looking for ways to maximize the limited space in my eight by ten-foot greenhouse/ workshop. I continuously shuffle tools from one place to another. Only carving tools have fixed locations because I need to reach for them all the time. Specialty planes, jigs, tool bits, and things I rarely use have no pride of place and get shifted as needed.
A neighbor visited last year and advised that I try the Marie Kondo method of decluttering. I civilly listened for a while, tuning the meaningless chatter out. A copy of Marie Kondo’s book was left leaning against the shop door. The pages were reasonably good for starting the firepit up. My neighbor’s feelings were hurt. But people who use screwdrivers to open paint cans are not to be trusted.
Is the space full? What’s the expression about having ten pounds in a five-pound container? OK, it’s true.
A twelve-step program for compulsive tool buyers might help. But I have a thing about being away from my tools for meetings. Just taking the time to write this keeps me away from browsing the Lee Valley site, not to mention Rockler, Woodcraft, and Highland Woodworking.
My wife has called me in for dinner. I’ve asked her to bring it out to the shop; she just doesn’t understand.

.

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Molasses Cookies

My friend, Todd’s mother, made the best Molasses spice cookies in the universe. I’d detour to Portland solely to say hi to Todd and get some of those phenomenal cookies. As a treat I’d take them over anything else.

Our friendship ruptured over disagreements about the Vietnam War. My Navy service had not involved deployment to Vietnam, but I had had a front-row seat to its effects on vets. Todd, on the other hand, saw my disagreement as a sort of betrayal of our government. I suggested that we agree to disagree, but that didn’t work. 

Hungry for my favorite treat I asked all the ladies who volunteered at the Gate Coffeehouse about their cookie recipes. Everyone had a favored molasses cookie recipe. All were good—some exceptional. But, none matched those of Todd’s mother. With the rift being so severe, I didn’t dare call his house, ask for his mother, and beg for the recipe. My hand did drift near the phone once in a while, but I didn’t call.

It’s been decades. But every time I visit Portland, it’s inevitable that I’ll think about those cookies. Losing a good friend is always hard, but losing a great molasses cookie. That’s tragic.

But as they say in Yiddish: Azoy vert dos kichel tzekrochen! (That’s how the cookie crumbles!)

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Frostbiter

With about five hundred year-round residents, my wife’s town would not have even made it to neighborhood status in New York. I reminded myself of this whenever I was feeling snide. Lately, I felt snide lots. I was back in town to help the Cap’n winterize his 34-foot ketch Psyche. Doing this consisted of winterizing the engine, adding a heavy-duty rub rail to the waterline, and removing the sails. Then there was the task of loading up and rowing ashore all the “stuff” accumulated over the summer. It was that part that I hated the most. The Cap’n did not have an outboard engine on the skiff. I received lots of rowing practice in the spring, bringing all the stuff out and taking it ashore in the fall. The Cap’n spent his time at the chart table fussing over the old charts in his “collection.” My wife was busy helping her mother make room in the garage for all the stuff I was bringing for storage.
The Cap’n was what is called by sailors – a frostbiter. That’s a person who keeps sailing so late in the season that they can get frostbitten. But at this moment, the only one getting frosted was me as I rowed ashore in the upper thirties (Fahrenheit -it was the sixties folks!). The wind was out of the North. With every gust, I was reminded of a saying, ” Cold as a dog, and the wind Northwest.” Another of the little bits of English I had acquired on the coast.
After bringing the last load ashore, and lugging things up to the house, I was ready for a hot drink. But the Cap’n had other ideas. “Before we take the sails off, I think we should go for one last sail. Wind should be southwest tomorrow and fair.” My hands were red and sore, and my arms felt like rubber bands from all the hauling I had done, but the guy who spent most of his time stuffing his pipe full wanted to go sailing. My wife thought that Daddy and I going for one last sail was great. Of course, she intended on staying near the woodstove chatting with her mother.
The Cap’n had other ideas.” Well. I thought we’d make a family outing of it.” my wife replied: ” Well, Daddy, you know we’d love to, but all this packing for Florida won’t get done.” The Cap’n tamped his pipe, ” Nonsense, we’ll get an early start and be back in time for lunch.” Cora stopped her packing, shot a look at her daughter, who looked to me for support. I smiled and mentioned snidely that a family sail was just the thing. The return look was pure venom. There was a brief silence before Cora sighed and said that there was nothing in the house for lunch tomorrow, and she’d have to go over the harbor to shop. My wife looked glum. I would be on the couch that night.
The next day looked as though it would be the last genuinely fair day of fall before we fell off the edge into winter ice storms, snow, and cold. I decided that this might not turn out too bad, after all. We got off the mooring quickly enough on a jib and mainsail. After leaving the cove and the Gut behind, there was enough breeze for the mizzen and fore staysail. Cora had decided on a picnic lunch on board. The Cap’n seemed to be pleased with his ability to call the weather for a perfect morning sail. The views of the countryside on the coast were phenomenal.
Unusually for him, he restricted the number of barbs directed at the crew – me. Neither Cora nor my wife would typically touch a line or sail. So I’d get all the ” ‘ware your luff, Wes,” and ” bring her closer into the wind” sort of comments.
Around noon the wind shifted, and the water grew choppy. The Cap’n decided to call it quits with a dropping barometer and temperature and head back to the cove. There was just one problem; we were now beating into the wind. Our morning sail had been leisurely; we now worked hard in short tacks to gain ground towards the cove and our mooring. The crew worked hard tacking, shifting sails and hauling lines to get every bit of advantage from each tack. At last, with the mooring in view, the Cap’n decided to drop sail and motor in.
There was just one little problem. We had winterized the engine. The Cap’n looked chagrined but soon ordered me into the skiff to haul Psyche the last yards to the mooring. This I did, and soon we were rowing ashore.

Inconvenient, right? Yes, but remember what I said about this being a community of about five hundred year-round residents? We weren’t at the house long enough to brew tea before the Cap’ns brother Lyman called. What happened? Sure looked like a proper mess out there. It would have been best if you had radioed me. I would have fetched you to the mooring. That was what the Cap’n was hearing. Then came the real blow to the Cap’ns pride. ” Everybody in the cove is talkin’ bout it.” Small, small country town. There is nothing much to talk about except what your neighbors are doing. Then the prominent and stuck up Master Mariner in the cove pulls an idiot move. It flashes over town faster than a gasoline fire.

The Cap’n turned to look at me; I looked back. My wife looked unhappy, Cora departed to sort things out in the kitchen. Out came the pipe and tobacco pouch, fill, tamp, light, and puff. “Wes, why did you winterize the engine?” Snidely I replied to my father in law – “Because you asked me to Cap’n.”
The winter was peaceful. We heard nothing from Cora and the Cap’n other than a Christmas card. We did go up to check on the house and the boat a few times that winter. It must have been a very slow winter. Lyman said that the Cap’n was still a popular topic at the coffeeshop over to the harbor in January.

“Lo, how the mighty have fallen.”

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Just Right

I had great difficulty learning to carve incised letters. It had nothing to do with the technique and everything to do with my perception of depth. My mentor, Warburton, overcame this by teaching me a popular method with German carvers. Using the profiles of the curved and straight tools, you make a series of stabbing cuts. By using different tools, you create individual letters, then words. The system works fine for small inscriptions. You need a comprehensive set of tools with all the curves and such to make it work well. Once I was away from Warburton’s shop and hundreds of tools, that system fell apart.
If your toolset consisted of about seven tools, as mine did, that system is impractical. It can take years for a carver to acquire a comprehensive set of tools. Proper tools are not cheap, and I wasn’t flush with funds. I had to develop an alternative that was economical in terms of tools needed, but that also looked good.
An advantage to a limited toolset is that you become adaptable, and learn how to extend your tools through technique rather than searching the tool rack for just the right tool. That method was what helped me stumble upon what I called the bolster method. After the sign was designed and the typography was drawn ( that’s how long ago this was – no computers for typography), you took either a carver’s firmer ( a chisel sharpened on both faces) or a knife and outlined the letter with vertical cuts. On curves, you used curved gouges or a knife. Using cuts of about forty-five degrees, you then cut around the letter. The key to making this look good was your cuts’ accuracy and how you finished the sign after the cuts were made. I’d varnish the sign. And then paint the sloping cuts one color and the body of the letter in some complementary color.
I abandoned this method once my depth perception for letters snapped in one day, and left me wondering where it had been hiding.

I forgot all about the method for years. One summer, I was teaching a course in carving in a town near where I live. One of the students was a gentleman who seemed to have an inability to grasp letter carving. Your cuts need to be at a consistent angle. His were never the same angle twice, and as a result, his lettering was beyond redemption. None of the practice exercises helped. At last, I demonstrated both the method Warburton had shown me and the bolster method.
I had ten students in the class, and they were all eager to move onto carving an eagle. I assumed he’d experiment after class.

About a year later, I received a call from my former student, asking me to visit and see his “carving studio.” Curious, I agreed. He had put up a beautiful shed that he had lavishly customized into a carving studio in his back yard. Inside was a workbench that I recognized from a top tool seller’s catalog. It retailed for about a thousand dollars. The racks below the bench held every single tool manufactured by the Pfeil company, an expensive Swiss tool company. Where I have perhaps forty of their gouges, he had bought out their entire collection. I asked him to show me some of his work. He pulled out a beautiful piece of Honduras mahogany marked up with attempts to letter in the bolster method. No two cuts were consistent. He then showed me another board lettered in the German method Warburton had shown me. It was passable, but barely. “Well, Charlie, what else have you been doing?” His reply: “I had to get the shop set up first, then the bench needed assembly, and It took a long time to order and rack all the tools. So I’ve just started. I was thinking of taking an advanced course with you.”
We sat down in the shop to kill for and had some cold drinks. Last year he had sold the software venture he was part owner in and now had time and money to pursue his passion, carving. Trying hard not to hurt his feelings I attempted to explain that he was not ready for an advanced course. I went over to his tools and gathered seven tools. ” A Scottish carver named Sayres wrote a great book on carving that only uses these seven tools. You can attain incredible mastery by working with his methods until you master them. Then you’ll be ready to use the other tools you own.”
It didn’t go down well, and I got up to leave. On my way out, he yelled at me: ” I’ll do fine on my own! I don’t need to work with turkeys like you!”
I replied: “There is an old saying – ” sometimes you have to fly with the turkeys, before you can soar with the eagles.” – so goodbye.”

I was glad that I had had to work long and hard with my few tools. Most carvers, I know, have lots of tools. They collect around you over the years like metal shavings around a magnet. But walk into a busy carver’s shop and look at the bench. She or he has about a dozen that are used all the time. Rather than searching for just the right sweep of gouge, you make do with your favorite.

A shop with all the tools neatly racked, and no chips are like a clean desk—a sign of a sick mind.

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