Woodworking and my Dad

With all of the snow and cold this past winter many of us in New England had piles of snow on our roofs, ice damns in our gutters and sustained leaks and water damage.  Because of the numbers, getting contractors and trades specialists to do the repair work has become a lesson in patience.  This past week work was started on my neighbor S’c unit.  This morning, being a non-work day, I woke leisurely and slowly to the slightly distant sounds of hammering and power sawing.  In this not asleep-not awake state these sounds tickled my unconscious and brought to mind my Father.  

My dad was a butcher by trade.  But his passion and school training were in carpentry and fine wood working.  He loved working with wood and making beautiful, useful things.  When we moved from the city to the suburbs our house had an attached garage.  This garage never housed an auto.  From the day we moved in it was clearly my Dad’s workshop. 

He had places for tools, organized by function – gardening, plumbing, electrical, carpentry.  He had an enormous work bench of re-cycled wood, I don’t know where he got it, but it was this huge slab, probably 2 inches thick that could withstand anything.   

His most appreciated and enjoyed Father’s Day and Birthday presents were assorted tools power and non.  And the pièce de résistance was the multi-functional table saw with many accessories.

He made customized storm and screen windows for every window in our house.  He completely “finished” our huge lower level family room with paneling and a wonderful desk with built in drawers and book shelves.  

 
He and my brothers built a mammoth deck off the kitchen with seating and railings on all open sides and a brick barbeque with abutting marble topped workspace and underneath storage.  

He customized rooms and closets in our house.  He made my bedroom furniture.  And then, when there were no more projects of necessity, he created art.  He made my then sister-in-law and me beautiful wooden jewelry boxes.  And he sculpted an assortment of wooden fish.

Every weeknight after having had a 30 minute commute to and from work and working on his feet in a cold, meat sensitive temperature for 8 hours he would come home, have his supper and then off to his “shop” for a good two hours or more.  Week nights I usually had home work so I was not able to join him.  But Sunday’s, I had plenty of time.  He taught me how to use hand tools, how to measure, how to cut molding using a miter box, how to “hide” nail heads” and how to use his table saw and accessories without loosing any fingers.  

This was time I treasured.  It wasn’t so much that I wanted these skills; though I am glad I’ve retained some of them.  I wanted the time, this wonderful time with just me and my Daddy.  He had a radio on in the shop; it was always tuned to whatever station was broadcasting the “game.”  Conversation was limited to needed instructions only.  The focus was on the task at hand with “the game” keeping us company in the background.  I’ve never developed an interest in sports.  But, oh, how I love hearing games on the radio.  It takes me back to those cherished Sundays and I luxuriate in these memories.