CurlyShavings

A colleague I met at work makes electric guitars. Cool. Even cooler, he found an ancient house in the area that was getting rid of some ancient, wide chestnut floorboards. That he wanted to turn into a the body of a small travel electric guitar.

Turns out, said colleague doesn't have a whole lot of tools. Not cool. But he's going to let me work on his board, his one-of-a-kind chestnut board. That's cool.

So after some discussion at an East 4^th restaurant (imagine the waitress' eyes when she sees this board on her table!), we decide that I'll make some cuts, here and there and clean them up with a handplane. Sweet.

Well, one thing led to another and I didn't get to it for a couple of weeks. And then I lost confidence that I knew anymore where I was to make these cuts.

I had a rough idea of where the lines would be and so taped them to show my colleague and sent him some pictures. He approved and I ran the board through the bandsaw, leaving just a little bit proud of the line.

Here's where the handplane comes in.

I have a collection of them that I like to use. A #4, a couple of #5s, a really nice #6 bastard and a #7. That doesn't count the various block planes I've made, purchased, collected, etc.

OK, so you get it that I like handplanes.

If you're not familiar with the sound that a plane makes taking off a full-width, gossamer shaving of chestnut, I doubt I'll be able to reproduce it for you. There's just a satisfying ssshhwwshht as the plane glides along the edge. That sound, the lack of earplugs, the resulting curlyshavings and the satisfaction of moving your upper body muscles in tune with a 50-year old tool on well-over 100-year old wood.

That's why I pretend to be a woodworker. That's real satisfaction. Forget the spreadsheets and change records. Give me a board and a sharp tool.

Our fair city's third-tallest building (by eyeball) got in the way of a rather smallish sparrow this morning.

I was exiting this building with a cup of coffee in my hand (as I sometimes do) when I saw it.

Now, the last twelve hours have seen a bit of rain (as the barometer foretold) and this smallish sparrow was hunkered down on the wet, red granite in from of this tallish building. I'm not an ornithologist, however hard I try. I do know my neighbors and this one didn't look familiar. The cut of the beak, perhaps, or the more densely spotted back.

After absorbing myself completely in watching her for a few minutes to see if she'd fly away, it didn't appear that she would. She didn't even protest as I placed my hand over her warm back and slipped my fingers under her equally warm belly.

There's a little flower bed a dozen feet away with a sheltered overhang into which I placed her.

Still no protest, no visible gratitude. If she was even aware of me, those beady little eyes didn't show it. Or even any signs of being terrified. She graciously accepted the change in location by hunkering further into the little corner she now found herself in. I suppose that's the best kind of gratitude.

Aware now of the people walking nearby and staring, I cut the corner of the Square to my own sheltered overhang, out of the way of this gray and dripping windy weather, taking with me only the memory of this warm softness.

Matthew 10:29-31

Are not two sparrows sold for a cent? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows.

[2008-04-11 16:05] As of this afternoon, she was gone. There was some chirping coming from the bushes, but I didn't get a visual.