Re: Waterstone Sharpening
Sgian Dubh
>Bert, there's nothing disdainful about it. I'm all about results where the process is not very important. To others the tools and the process is important and results are of lesser consequence.
Each to their own. Here's a tale from way back when I began in this trade. You may get a wee tickle from it,--- or not, ha, ha. Slainte.
A Lesson in Sharpening.
A perennial subject in woodworking magazines is that of sharpening techniques. No other furniture making topic seems to generate so many words, resulting in the publication of innumerable articles detailing �infallible� or �sure fire� methods of doing the job.
Naturally, the subject is of great interest because blunt tools aren't much use. The opening preamble to many of these articles often cause a wry smile for they bring back memories of my initiation into the 'dark' art. Many authors make valid points about those that struggle at it, and possess a workshop full of dull tools.
Conversely, it is often said that those that can do the job tend to be fanatical about grits, slurries and bevel angles. My experience is that there are really only two types of people when it comes to sharpening.
1. Those that can�t.
2. Those that can.
In the first group, those that can't, you'll sometimes see every sharpening system known to man arrayed around their workshop gathering dust. They have oilstones, water stones, ceramic stones, diamond stones, guides, bits of sandpaper, jigs, etc.. Usually, every hand tool they own is chipped, dull and mostly useless.
In the second group, those that can, I haven�t observed much fanaticism about slurries, grits and bevel angles. In all the workshops I�ve worked in the only concern is to get the job done. It�s a case of, "Plane�s blunt, better sharpen it." Dig out the stone, sharpen the blade, shove it back in the plane, and get on with it. The equipment is minimal. A grinder, a stone and lubricant, along with a few slips for gouges and the like.
Going back to the early seventies when I trained, learning how to sharpen tools was undertaken within the first few days. I don�t now precisely recall the order of my instruction, but it went something like this. I was handed a plane by the cabinetmaker I was assigned to and told, "Git that piece o� wood square." I didn�t know why, but I�d done a bit of woodworking at school, so I had a vague idea what to do. I fooled around with that lump of wood for twenty or thirty minutes, and got it something like. All this under the watchful eye of the crusty old guy and his ever present roll-up hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
"Okay, I�ve done that." I said, "Now what do you want me to do?"
I was told to hang about for a minute whilst he picked up his square and straight edge and proceeded to scrutinise my handiwork, followed by a non-committal grunt and some desultory foot sweeping of the plentiful shavings on the floor. (The wood was probably only about seventy five per cent of its original volume!)
"Now sonny, let�s do the next job," he announced. "Pull that jack plane yuh�v bin usin� apairt and let�s have a look at the iron." I did.
"Hold the iron up so�s yuh can see the cuttin' edge," he instructed. (He was a Scot.) Again I did as I was told.
"Now, can yuh see it? Can yuh see the �line o� light� at the shairp end there?" he wheezed, as he tapped off a line of ash onto the floor and stood on it. He was referring to the shiny reflection visible when cutting edges are dull.
"Aye," I said, after a little eye narrowing, and other pretence of intelligence.
"How shairp does it look to yoo boy?" he enquired.
I thought about this for a moment or two, seeking the right response to my tormentor, for I hadn't really got a clue what he was talking about, and finally replied rather hopefully and a bit brightly, "Pretty shairp, I�d say."
He laughed out loud, and hacked a bit. "Dinnae be the daft bloody laddie with me son. If yuh can see it, it�s blunt. I could ride that bloody iron bare-ersed to London and back and no cut ma�sel�. Git o�er here an� I�ll show yuh something."
You can probably guess. Out came the oilstone from his toolbox, and quick as a flash the iron was whisking up and down the stone, flipped over, the wire edge removed, and finally stropped backwards and forwards on the palm of the hand.
You could shave with it. I know, because he demonstrated how sharp it was by slicing a few hairs off his forearm. On went the cap iron and the lot was popped back in the plane, followed by a bit of squinting along the sole from the front whilst the lever and knob were fiddled with and that was it. He took a few shavings off a piece of wood and it went back in his toolbox. It took, oh,�......a few minutes.
"Now son, that�s a shairp plane. It�s nae bloody use to me blunt. Yuh may as weel sling a soddin� blunt yin in the bucket fur'all the use it is to me." He explained with great refinement. "I�ve aboot ten mair o� them in that box, an� they�re all blunt. I know they are, because ah�ve bin savin �em for yuh. There�s a bunch a chisels too. Let�s get yuh started."
For what felt like forever I sharpened his tools for the one and only time under his rheumy eyed and critical stare, and things gradually got better. After a while he stopped telling me what a "completely daft stupit wee bastit" I was, and a bit later he started offering grudging approval. I had to sharpen some tools more than once because he kept on using and dulling them. When I�d done the lot we stopped and surveyed the days work.
"Aye, no too bad fer a daft laddie's fust effort," he commented darkly, sucking hard on his smoke, "I think ye�ve goat whit it takes. Time will tell sonnie. Remember, ye�ll never be a bliddy cabinetmaker if yuh cannae even shairpen yer feckin� tools. Lesson over. Dinnae ferget it!"
I haven't.