LISTENING TO WOOD

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Whittling a tune beats the
sound of a table saw any day.

by Joe Novara

You've heard of Whistler's Mother? Well, if I had painted a picture of my mother, they would have called it Whittler's Mother, because I like to whittle.

Some folks whittle just to have something to do with their hands - a man's version of knitting. Except, instead of a sweater, they end up with a pile of kindling. Which isn't all bad when there's a stove or fireplace around. But since I installed a gas furnace I've had the warmest barn in the county, what with all the gunny sacks full of wood - shavings lining the walls.

But I'm not just making wood chips when I whittle. I'm looking for something. I'm a firm believer that every stick has something inside it that wants to come out - even if it's only a thinner, slimmer version of itself. When I whittle a chunk of wood, it's like laying back in a fresh green field on a summer day and study ing clouds to see what stories they have to tell. I slowly unwrap the bark cover, like a bride-to-be at a bridal shower, holding her breath, waiting to say oooh! Then I study the stick until I see something in the grain and the nubs and the knots - a bird or a troll or just a smooth and graceful shape.

One day my grandson Chunk stopped by. I like that name. His girlfriend gave it to him. She used to call him flunk until he put on a few extra pounds. I think he looks good with the extra insulation. I guess I've always seen a chubby man trying to get out of the skinny boy he used to be.

Anyhow, Chunk asked me to come along with him to pick up some cabinet doors for a home he was building.

"Besides," he shouted (Why do people talk louder to old folks? I'm getting older not deafer), "I thought you might like to see this guy's woodworking shop, seeing as how you like wood so much. Man, he has this system all laid out where he can take a stick of rough-cut lumber and run it through about ten different machines and in 20 minutes you got a cabinet door ready to varnish and hinge. Slick."

"I'll be glad to come with you, son," I replied.

Troth is, I find lumber sad and boring. People slice and cut it for maximum board-foot yield, tearing away through knots and curves and then milling the planks to make sure they stack up nice and neat and uniform.