Talking To Wood
Winter of '21, carpentry work was slow so I spent time by the wood stove whittling these things for my friends who like to cook. These have bite marks thanks to Mr. Boomer who likes to leave his mark.
Whittling
This is a companion piece, an essay to go with a poem called “Talking To Wood”. I have spent a lot of time whittling wood, sometimes on the job as a part of making a living but mostly in my spare time when my hands get restless. I have adored wood since I can remember, playing with blocks, making little daggers, spears, arrows. I was not overly interested in war time stuff, I just wanted to create shapes out of wood and those were the simple things children make. I remember peeling back the bark, marveling at the smoothness of the wood beneath.
It began with a witless child doing what witless children do. We hack away until the wood disappears in a pile of shavings and matchsticks. Or gives a last gasp and falls into two useless pieces. Or it might hang on long enough to resemble this thing we had in mind. Years of that approach passed and it slowly changed into the beginning of a lifelong conversation between my hands and a piece of wood. The knife was only the intermediary, like a matchmaker. I was not an artistic child nor adult. I produced practical things like handles, benches, tables, kitchen implements, railings, and interesting posts.
I have whittled shapes from odd wiggly pieces that called out to me; “I have suffered under great wind, small amounts of water and I have set my roots down into this tiny crack in this massive boulder.” I might be hiking by and I am stopped in my tracks by this tiny heroic sprig that tried to set up shop where his seed was blown or pooped. If he had legs or wings he would have moved on but he did not have that choice. He made the best of a ratty situation. In recent years I have only taken dead wood. Some of these tiny, naturally occurring bonsai are only 1”-2” thick and are 165 years old! The grain is so dense, so compact, they are practically invisible to the naked eye with the distance between summer and winter grain at 1/80th of an inch.
Wood has the patience of time itself, spending hundreds of years rooted to the same spot, watching the sun rise and set, watching the storms roar bringing rain or snow and then pass on. They have felt the tickle of a passing flock of nuthatches scampering up and down their limbs. Some trees may have seen fires advance up the hills and consume their brethren. I will spend the rest of my life trying to understand that patience.
Talking To Wood I asked him politely, “Mr. Douglas Fir, have you any hidden cracks, an angry splinter lurking? Have pine beetles been boring holes in you? Have you been shaken by the wind?” How did you grow around that rock? Your lovely lines wave at me, beckoning. Your winter grain sandwiches the wide, pale, soft summer grain. I am whittling by your annual rings, creating something by following your lines. So we are wedded, you and I, or maybe we are just blood brothers since you stabbed me and I bled on you. If we could but trust each other together we can make cooks smile. They will hold us in their hands and admire your red orange glow. Christmas Day-2021
"Wood has the patience of time itself...."
Beautiful, Weston.