Stories about woodworking?
Mike G.
>Over the last year or so when I've had the time or didn't have "writer's block", I've been trying to write some woodworking stories. I would like to know if it's alright to post some of them here and get some constructive feedback. For instance, here's one I wrote a while back. Some of you may have already read it. Critiques are welcome, even if it's just on grammar or sentence structure. Thanks
The Ole Galoot
The old codger let his gnarled old hands caress the rosewood tote of the ancient hand plane.The wood was worn smooth from years of use and care. This plane, this finely tuned piece of cast steel and exotic wood, was old, considered an antique when he had acquired it.
The feel of the Rosewood as he ran his hand over it seemed to give the old guy new found energy. He picked the plane up with both hands, feeling the weight of it.
He limped over to his work bench and put a board in the vise. With knowing fingers, he adjusted the iron for a fine cut and ran the tool down the edge of the board several times. The shavings came out of the top of the plane and floated in the air as if gravity didn't exist. A little smile touched the corners of his mouth as he went back to his old tool chest and put the tool reverently back in it's place.
He knew he didn't have much time left and was agonizing over what to do with his collection of antique tools. He wanted to leave them to someone who would use them, not put them up on a shelf like a bunch of trinkets or doodads. Collectors, he thought, what a bunch of pantywaists. They bought up all the really good tools and put them up, never to be used again.
The old Galoot was proud of the fact that he had never bought a tool unless he had a use for it. Nevermind that he would make up a project just so he could buy a coveted tool. It wasn't enough to use it one time and put it up, though. He had to "Know" the tool. He would fiddle with it and use it until he had mastered it.
The hand tools were all he had left. The machinery and power tools had been sold long ago to pay the rent and buy food. The kids wanted him to get rid of the rest of his "Junk." They didn't realize what a treasure trove was contained in that old tool chest. He had tried to interest them in using the tools, broaden their horizons, but they weren't interested. They had better things to do with their time. Time, he thought; What a fickle mistress she is.
This is fiction...or is it? Only the future will tell.
Written by Mike Guenther on 01/11/03