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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The hinge squeaked when I entered. I found the string to click the light. I knew where it was even in the dark, even after so many years. This shop takes me back to days with my grandfather. The smell of fresh wood, and on the shelf above the well worn work bench, sits the wood planes. A half dozen of the finest wood tools ever made. The fine woods that spoke shave has homed the many table legs, the chair backs of oak, ash, and maple it has rounded and shaped, in my grandfathers hands. Light breaks on the block plane small delicate with a narrow side grip. I watched that old man smooth the edge of doors and windows that even to this day fit like leather on a cow’s back. He taught me how to keep it straight. That jack plane is older than I and sharper than a tin-whistle to a dog’s ear. How he could make it sing I watched him, when I was little, each stroke smooth, straight and on the number. The touch of a true master, never hurried, always knew what he was doing and why. Stanley No. 32 transitional jointer plane (26 inches long) the work turned out by that master plane. His eye on the line and each push throwing curly fibers out the mouth, long strips of near paper thin shavings falling to the workshop floor, with his sweat. Now they are mine, he left them to me, I don’t know why. I could never use them, not like he could, all I ever wanted was his touch with the wood, his cutting directions, and sharp love that sculptured the heart of a grandson.
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