with me, tugging at me as I emerged into a career of teaching, writing, and public speech. I had little awareness that many of the craft values realized in shop were also guiding the way I wrote, thought, and engaged in the administration of academic affairs.
My only effort in woodwork took place in my mid-twenties, when I constructed an elaborate stand for the sound equipment and records that had accumulated in my collegiate and graduate school years. Made of numerous slats and threaded rods, with one diagonal bracer board, it was designed to be taken apart for the many moves of a scholar’s early life. Needless to say, it was so intricate I only disassembled it under dire need. I finally passed it on to a friend and it disappeared from my life, a fleeting testimony to ingenuity and the paucity of tools, space, and resources at my disposal. But I was helping raise three kids, too, who have reminded me that I engaged in enough woodworking during those years to pass on some skills and attitudes.
Eric, a Star Trek fan at age seven, remembers how we built a small closet in his bedroom that was the base of a rocket ship, with a painted façade, a control room, and all sorts of Wizard-of-Oz controls. It was, he says, his first stage set. He went on to major in theater in college and has spent much of his career designing and building stage sets. Of course, he says, “I don’t have to be as concerned about how it looks close up!”
My daughter Aneliese tells me that my matter-of-fact involvement of her in my projects taught her confidence with tools and habits of work that she has carried into her work in graphic arts and jewelry design. I really never thought about these things. It was just the way we did things together. “Always productive,” she would add with a grin.
At one point in those interim years there emerged a very small, seemingly insignificant symbol of the meaning of woodworking in my life. It was a time, as Dante said, that I came to an impasse—“a dark wood”—in my life. My usual guides had fallen away and I couldn’t see how to link the story of my past to a viable future. It was then that I took a small piece of wood—pine or spruce—and carved a small boat as a symbol of the unknown journey ahead, a journey that took me to a new life with my beloved Sylvia and a developing new understanding of my vocation. Wood was not only a vehicle of memory but of hope and transformation. These themes have been at the heart of much of my life and work ever since—themes that have pressed with persistent nudging to a deeper work with wood as well as words.
It was only when we built our retirement home, complete with a large basement blasted out of our mountainside in the Smokies, that I was able to start assembling the machines, workbenches, and shelves that would become the workshop I have worked in for the last twenty years. The extra cost of a full basement was one of the best investments I’ve ever made.
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The Enchantment of Trees
It was for me, too, Bill. And it’s fortunate that both of us live surrounded by trees. Your home, high up on the slopes of the Appalachians above Waynesville, is located in a forest of cherry, walnut, and maple. Our home is built on a ridge looking down the Hemel en Aarde Valley, near Hermanus, a coastal town 100 miles southeast of Cape Town, widely known as the whale capital of the world. Next to our house is a small forest of tall pine and eucalyptus trees that link earth and heaven. From our deck you can see many more trees on every side, stretching over the farm and down the valley, trees of every shape and size, with leaves of many shades of green—eucalyptus, plane, oak, camphor, yellow-wood, wild olive, cottonwood, keurbooms, poplars, boekenhout, waterberry alders, and the ubiquitous invasive aliens, pines, bluegums, and Port Jackson willows. It is not a case of us not seeing the wood for the trees; when we see the trees we already have a sense of what lies hidden behind the bark and the outer rings of sapwood. We discern the heart wood deep within that gives the furniture we make its quality, texture, and rich colors.
Many years ago, when I was a graduate student in Chicago living in Hyde Park, I noticed one of my professors, Ross Snyder, walking past our window on the sidewalk. He suddenly stopped in front of a tree, I forget the kind, and then, so it seemed, he began talking to it. I was dumfounded, and even more so when later I found out that he was, indeed, having a conversation! I no longer think he was a little peculiar. Thomas Pakenham, in his wonderful books Meeting with Remarkable Trees and Remarkable Trees of the World tells about his many encounters with trees across the globe, including South Africa where he has spent much time.
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John, the story of Ross Snyder reminds me that the sermon I gave as a senior at Yale Divinity School was entirely a soliloquy directed at the large maple outside the windows flanking the chapel. In talking to the tree, as in later years I talked to a large bowl of dirt (that’s another story!), I was entering into the world of associations we have with trees, as well as reifying in some sense their very mystery, their very otherness. If Ross and I are crazy, at least we aren’t alone! We both have acted into the ancient mystery of the tree.
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Ancient and yet very personal, Bill. And we owe our life to them. I am told that the first trees began to evolve 300 million years ago and within another 100 they covered the earth as the most successful plants of all. They also live longer than any other living organism on the planet. They are fundamental to life, they provide food, and their wood can be used in many different ways. In short, they are an amazing part of the plant kingdom, so varied and complex in kind, in shape and size, in texture and color, that it is almost impossible to classify them with complete accuracy. But once you start working with wood, you need to get to know trees, the strengths and weaknesses of their wood for the tasks at hand, and how best you can help them begin their new life whatever that might be.
For instance, the trees in the Appalachians are wonderful for furniture making. I envy you going out of your shop into the forest to select a tree for your next project. When I look at them I see order, stateliness, clear lines, regular patterns, straight grain, consistent color, and can already imagine a cabinet or table that would grace any mansion. I love working with such wood, along with ash, beech, white and red oak, mahogany, teak, rosewood—but all of these have to be imported into South Africa at considerable expense. So I shudder in alarm when you feed off-cuts into your woodstove! I take comfort that you live in the middle of a forest that continually replenishes itself, fed by abundant water and rich soil. Our climate and depth of soil, by contrast, varies greatly from one end of the country to the other. It can’t nurture and sustain forests on such a scale. With a few exceptions, the Knysna forest being one, we have nothing as extensive as those that stretch along the Appalachian Mountains or the Cascades and Rockies in North America.
All the trees on Volmoed are strikingly textured and colorful, but are individually precious for their beauty and shade, and have not grown without a struggle. I marvel how each tree has its own character and seems to belong to the place where it has taken root, even if imported from elsewhere. These trees are seldom available for my workshop, unless blown over in a storm, and only a few can be turned, carved, or used for furniture. Most do not grow straight, but are gnarled and shaped by wind and weather, by their varied genes, and by their location on the farm. As we live in the midst of the Fynbos kingdom, one of the six floral kingdoms in the world, we have to work hard to control invasive species. We have an ongoing struggle to eradicate them, or at least control them. They provide wood to make charcoal and logs to burn for warmth and cooking, but are not much value in my workshop. Pine and meranti aside, when I need wood for special projects I hasten to my favorite timber merchants appropriately named “Rare Woods” in Cape Town or “Exotic Woods” in Hermanus. Blackwood, stinkwood, oak, African rosewood or walnut, Brazilian peppercorn, cedar, balau, imbuia, kiaat, jacaranda, and camphor are the ones I love to work with most, but some are now difficult to obtain, others are listed as invasive aliens by government and cannot be planted, many are increasingly expensive, not least because we have mismanaged and abused them for far too long. So you and I are amongst the growing numbers of people who oppose the wanton destruction of forests, and try to ensure that the wood we use in our workshops is harvested sustainably.
