In Love, For the First Time, All Over Again

I’m not sure how, when or where my affection for wood first developed. As far back as I can remember, the warping and weaving of the grain lines have been a fascination to me. I can remember, even as a very little girl, eagerly counting the lines to determine the age, trying to read the history of the tree from the varying widths of concentric circles. The more pronounced striations created by intrusions of plants and animals and disease as the tree aged held their own special interest. And the smell! There is nothing as heavenly as the pungent smells of pine or cedar and the more subtle aroma of oak or walnut. And of course, the smell of cypress.

But it is the caress of a smoothly sanded piece of wood that is the most alluring. When the grain has been worn and hewn and sanded until it is as smooth as glass, smoother than glass – this is when affection turns to love.

Tonight, I had the golden opportunity to turn my first piece of wood on a lathe. I never cease to be amazed by the talent of those around me. That I have come to know, over the years, so many people with so much talent who are so generous to want to share that with others is a source of continuous astonishment. I am very pleased to know the husband of a very special friend of mine who is quite adept at turning wood and at handling wood in general. He is quite well known along the bayou for his ability to fashion any number of useful and decorative items, including Cajun pirogues, using traditional methods.

For a number of years, now, he has been turning wood, creating bowls of varying sizes, goblets, and merely decorative pieces. He neither sells nor gives his creations away – at least not intentionally. Those who know him well have been known to procure an item or two. But, generally, if you want something from him, he suggests you come to his shop and make it yourself.

So, tonight I took on the challenge. I showed up, this Tuesday night with the wood turners, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, ready to get in amongst them. If the other men there were surprised to see a woman in their “clubhouse,” they were gracious enough not to show it. On the contrary, they encouraged me and good naturedly revealed their own blunders as they were learning and even after they felt somewhat adept, in an effort to set me at ease.

Surprisingly, for one who has always been intimidated by power tools, I felt no hesitation at all. I eagerly took each tool into hand after a brief demonstration of the use and went right to work to try to imitate what I had been shown. My mentor first cut a small block of wood, about six inches square and five inches high, from a piece of mimosa he had been fortunate enough to find. This is a particularly fine piece of wood, amazing for its size, as mimosa generally does not get old enough to grow so large or develop such variations. He cut for me just a small piece from the larger whole, but I was decidedly pleased and honored that he chose to share it with me. The two or three men there with us were quick to inform me he had not shared any of this particular wood with them.

My teacher set the piece up on the lathe, tightened what needed to be tightened, then leaned over and flipped the switch. As the block turned, he showed me how to use first the gouge to level the outside and then the blades to smooth the finish. When that was about as smooth as it could get without sanding, he showed me how to begin work on the inside. I continued gouging and cutting and shaving until the bottom began to take shape, the inside walls began to thin out and the whole began to look like a bowl. Sanding came last, working through various grades of sandpaper from coarse to fine, from 80 to 120, etc, and finally to 400, until the wood began to sing and to shine and to wink in the reflection of light from the overhead gooseneck lamp.

And while the visual transformation was incredible to behold, it was the feel – the sensual transformation – that, to me, held the most satisfaction. My guide was anxious that I should have something to take home on my first night at the lathe. But had I felt more confident in speaking up and less conscious of his hospitality and generosity - his eagerness for my success - I might have said to him that I wanted to go more slowly. I wanted to take each step in slow and steady paces, stopping frequently along the way to feel each stage of the process. To fall completely in love with one phase before moving slowly on to the next.

But there will be a next time. And I have a feeling that in woodturning, as in love, each time will feel as though it were the first time, all over again.