Learning the lingo

Waney, haunch, pawl, rabbet—it sounds like a law firm but isn’t. Rip, jig, kerf, gullet—all good Scrabble words if placed deftly. Button, batten, biscuit & bench-dog sounds like an ad agency I once worked for. Flitch, dado, collet, chamfer—now you’ve got it. Jointer, wobble-blade, loose tongue are all words in a new language I’m learning: the language of woodworking.

A woman would have called the planer/jointer tool a joiner because what it does is plane boards straight enough to join them, but carpentry and power tools were largely a man’s world, so they got to name the toys. The whole lexicon seems contrived for a secret society.

For years I have longed for the power that power tools bestow. And for the knowledge of woodcraft that turns rough lumber into fine furniture. But this longing has been tempered by the love I have for my corporal being. As a writer, my fingers are some of my most useful tools. I hate to think of losing any of them.

Next weekend, I will travel to Brooklyn to a place called Makeville to get certified to use power tools. At Makeville, once you are certified you can use their tools and space for a small fee. My husband has not encouraged this endeavor, except to refrain from discouraging it. He lovingly refers to me as his own “tool-belt diva.”

I have always liked making things. And, as a lover of things that are often out of reach financially, I like finding ways to make do. When I was in college I came to love patchwork. Having acquired a sewing machine as a teenager—my first power tool—I had a way with a seam. Soon I was bringing my knowledge of 10th-grade geometry into sewing patchworks like “tumbling blocks” and “flying geese.” I built a small enterprise on Beacon Hill, making wedding and baby quilts to supplement my bartending income. Later, as a young career woman I sewed my own wardrobe and was able to whip up a pair of pants or a skirt in an evening out of a yard and a quarter of fabric. My children wore hand-made dresses and velveteen Eton suits at holiday gatherings when they were young.

As a loft-dweller in the city, I have watched (and helped) as my husband built walls and closets and beds from rough lumber and pre-milled doors for years. Each phase of life brought forth a new need that was slammed together from two-by-fours and 12-pound nails using a circular saw and brute force. A cradle for the babies was one of the few pieces he assembled from finished stock. I admired his industry, but often dreamed of doing it myself, perfecting the art of joinery without the use of hardened steel nails.

Our first RiverFest in Narrowsburg introduced me to the work of Art Peck. He stood proudly at the end of Main Street next to a gleaming new wooden boat. I was astounded to learn he had made it himself. From wood!

Over the years I have insinuated myself into his mostly male domain, a large barn/workshop on the Flats, watching him craft cabin cruisers, clocks and rowboats. Many years and boats later, Art is teaching me the methods of woodworking.

It turns out I didn’t need to go to Brooklyn to learn the tools of this trade. This winter we are making a table together, crafted from dusty old white oak boards that emerge from his power planer as richly-grained blond wood alive with new possibility. We rip the boards to size on his table saw, plane them in a rhythmic dance of cooperation, feeding them in and out and back until they are smooth and even. We measure the kerf and cut the dado, tighten the collet and fix the jig, chisel the mortise and biscuit the joint. “Pretty good for a girl,” Art teases as I finish my first set of mortises.

By the time I get to Makeville, I’ll already know the lingo, thanks to Art.