I’ve never been a morning person…..ever. My dad on the other had has always felt like the day would be half over by 9:00 a.m. He often accomplishes more by that time than many people do in a whole day. Although my dad and I are alike in many ways this in not one of them. I could (and still can, although not nearly as long) sleep-in comfortably and be perfectly happy. So my memories of waking up on a Saturday morning to the sound of the table saw working away are not necessarily fond ones. There is nothing quite like the high pitched, grinding, shrill, shrieking sound of metal ripping wood apart. Now mind you it is quite tolerable and even somewhat enjoyable when taken in intentionally. However when it is the reason that you go from a deep peaceful sleep to sitting straight up in your bed forgetting who you are, where you are or how you got there, well that is a different story. So imagine my luck of having a bedroom directly connected to the garage or shop as we called it. There were many mornings where a power tool of some sort was the first sound I heard in the morning. I wasn’t a fan.
I was a fan however, of watching my dad work. Sometimes (not first thing on a Saturday morning) I would wander out to the shop and just watch for a bit. Occasionally fetching a tool or holding one object together with another one. I enjoyed a few moment here or there of just taking it in. Maybe it was the curiosity of wondering what all the pieces would end up being. Or maybe just spending a few minutes in my dads world. My dad was very present and involved throughout my entire childhood and until this day. But there was something different about him in the shop. It seemed to be his “comfort zone” his “sweet spot.”
For years I watched him create many different things. Benches, jewelry boxes, candy machines, wooden watches, tables, frames, cupboards, counters, and entire houses. I know I took it for granted. It was just something that he did and he was good at it, really good at it.
A number of times I have had the opportunity to build “with” my dad. There is a hope chest I have in my spare bedroom, a music box that was a graduation present, and know different things that I sell in my Etsy shop. Let’s be honest, we all know who did the bulk of the work, but I was there, handing tools, holding pieces together and watching. As I have begun really creating and rebuilding some of my own things we have spent more and more time in the shop together and I am learning. I will never be the woodworker he is and I am okay with it. I do hope to earn more time with his power tools as I prove to him I can keep all my fingers and toes.
Our latest project is by far my favorite. My parents have helped me to realize a desire to make my own rustic wood dining table. I have been saving different pictures and ideas for a while now and I always knew I would need help with it. For my birthday this year (three months ago) they used their skills and scored me an amazing pile of scrap wood. Dad spotted it with his eyes at a neighbors house and had wanted some for a while. Mom took him over there and did her bargaining magic. The wood was old floor planks from the Boise Cascade building. Cool indeed. Dad drew up some plans with the help of pictures I had saved and my sometimes unrealistic expectations in my own head. We have been working on this for a while now and almost a month ago it was moved into my house. This was a long process that at one point had me thinking I would be greatly dissapointed, but I was oh so wrong. It is beautiful and better than I had hoped.
In its raw form!
After the staining.
Apply a top coat. A couple hours after this is when I had my panic moment that it would never be what I hoped. We had some major problems with bubbling, but my ever cool and calm father reassured me we would work it out. It did.
Sometimes you have to undo something to make it right again. 🙂
I have yet to take a picture that captures the true beauty of this table but one day it will happen. 🙂 I do love this table and it was so worth the wait. It is just what I was looking for and could have never afforded in a store. But it is not the table that I love the most. It is the knowledge that I will always have this piece of furniture that will be a part of the stories and memories of building with my dad.
Lord it’s in your hands!