The Woodworker
A man with a beard like a brush flips his calloused hands inside one another. The room smells of linseed oil and sheep’s wool. Cracked and swollen, his skin catches in his hair as he pushes it from his eyes.
A wood burning stove, stout, radiates heat. He hoists a plank of wood from a nearby barn onto the workbench, flicks a hand broom back and forth dispersing chunks of debris into the corners of the shop. He takes a thin wooden angle, its corner braced with an arc, lines it up behind the line of termite holes, and presses out a thick mark. Dark. Black graphite trailing behind a carved pencil stub. Blunt in the same shape of his fingers.
He blows on the board and sends the extra markings to the edge of the table. Squinting his eyes, he lines up the teeth of the saw. Pulling back on the ram shaped handle, he lifts, realigns, pulls back, lifts, realigns. He continues this motion until the depth of the groove equals the depth of the teeth. He repositions his body, legs staggered, arms tight. Back and forth he pushes and pulls, depositing the dust of the saw on his shoes. It spills down the slant of his shoes landing in the step of his soles. A dusting.
As the groove deepens and the material thins, he tilts the blade down, cutting across in short quick movements, leaning into the board. In two hollow wood on concrete tones, the board slaps to the ground, silent. In time to a metronome, he brushes the remaining board, sits down on a stool and opens his notebook, cracked and worn like his body, it is a part of him. He writes, “Hemlock. Approx. 6” removed. Termites.” Using 2 clamps, he braces the board to the table and begins running the planer across its surface. Curls of wood slip behind the knob handle and break into shards. Like a snow shovel, it pushes the debris to the side. For hours he pushes the metal blade across the wood. Forcing off, sloughing off, layers of weather, human interaction, and yellowed varnish.
Pausing periodically, he adjusts the blade of the planer. The knob is tight. With a curved oil can he drops 3 beads into the shaft releasing the knob and continuing on. It is a cold night, but he feels the sweat race between the bristles of his eyebrows. He turns around and opens the cabinet to grab some rags. The door opens reluctantly and squeals with each tug. A teacup sized oil can, built like a perfume bottle, is grabbed and puffs of oil spray into the hinges. He opens and closes the door until the oil loosens the hinge and the metal slides freely across the rust.
Returning to the table with the rags, he dips the broom into a bucket of water on the floor and runs it across the board, revealing its grain and the depth of its color. Dirty drips run down the side of the table, as he sloshes from bucket to table and back again. Water lands on the floor, isolating the sawdust, cutting circles in the debris. Taking a white cloth in each hand he rubs the board from one end to the other. Firm circles, drying and buffing the surface.
Time for the board and the body to rest. He rolls out a green felt mat in front of the stove and lays the wood to dry. The termite ridden end is tossed in the stove as he climbs a ladder to the attic, unties his boots and lets them slip softly off his feet. He scrubs and rinses his feet and hands in a porcelain bowl with a few bits broken on the rim. The water warmed near the stove pipe is now amber. Peels off his flannel shirt and slips between the raw linen sheets. Folds his pillow twice and lays on his back, horizontal. Closes his eyes. Bits of the board stumble from his beard into the sheets. He pulls his grandfather’s green wool blanket up to his shoulders and sleeps.