Popular Woodworking 2006-11 № 158, страница 68
Out of the Woodwork Grumpy Old Men When properly trained, curmudgeons have many uses. It's easier to care for exotic pets than grumpy old men. You try to keep them in a safe, climate-controlled environment, but given a chance they'll stray into the woods with a gun or chain saw, drive to the hardware store in a blizzard to buy sandpaper, or climb up on the roof to fix shingles. A grumpy old man will spend four hours and five dollars worth of gas driving from one store to another, trying to save $2 on a $19.95 circular-saw blade. "I remember when you could get one of these for $3.95," he complains, as if it were your and your generation's fault. Properly trained, a grumpy old man has many uses. He can tell you the best car to buy (a 1953 DeSoto). He can tell you to get a riding mower so you'll never have to mow your own lawn again. "Kids these days are too lazy to use push mowers," he grumbles as he adjusts the blade height. A grumpy old man will make one identical bookcase for each child, then one for each grandchild. "I ought to charge for the lumber, but kids want everything for free," he complains. Once everyone has a bookcase, he'll turn out grandfather clocks. "It's time your kids learned to read a real clock instead of those electronic things," he mutters. He will paint your house, fix your car (when did they start putting engines in sideways?), sharpen your knives, planes and chisels - all the while telling you how lazy his children and grandchildren are (his dad taught him to sharpen tools at age 6). Watch out if your grumpy old man has his own chain saw (a 40-pound 1962 model). He'll want to borrow your 40 oz. "plastic toy saw" to cut down all the trees in your yard. "See that moss growing on your shingles? Too much shade," he warns. A grumpy old man ages about seven years for every one of your own. You are lucky to have one for more than 12 or 14 years. My own dad died when I was a teenager so I never got the chance to raise my own grumpy old man, but I've enjoyed meeting many older woodworkers during my years selling lumber. When middle-aged men buy lumber from my business, they sometimes bring their elderly fathers with them. A customer opens the door. "Hey Bob," I say. "You leave your hair at home today?" "Ha ha, Pete," he replies. "Yours looks fuller and thicker than last time. What's your secret?" "Titebond III." Bob is still holding the door open. by Peter Sieling Peter owns Garreson Lumber Co., a hardwood supplier, in Bath, New York. "Watch your step, Dad," he says. Behind him shuffles a wrinkled old man with eyes sparkling behind thick trifocals. His pants are pulled up to his rib cage with suspenders. Bob buys what he needs and we carry it out to the pickup. Dad tries to help. I worry he'll trip and hurt himself or slip on the ice outside. The old man turns to me. "I ran a mill back in '47. 'Forty-seven to '53. No wait ... '46 to '52 ... shucks, don't make no difference. If I had one of these new band mills I'd get a lot more wood out of those logs. I'd get one if I could still roll the logs. Stupid ticker's going on me." He thumps his heart with his fist, then jerks his head toward his son. "Bob's into computers." He sounds disappointed. "I ran a 24"" ironwood log through the mill once. You don't see 'em that big very often. You ever see one that big?" "Almost," I nod. "It pulled the motor right off the mount." He laughs. "Come on, Dad." Bob beckons Dad into the truck and drives away. I think to myself, "That looks like fun, having an old man to tote around." Then I go and pet my dog. PW 96 Popular Woodworking November 2006 |
