At the beginning of October, I created a box whose design I absolutely adored. The proportions, the grain, the style... everything. It was also a fun box to build and simple in some regards, but quite challenging in others. I proudly showed my latest and greatest creation around and decided to go forward and begin producing them in quantities.

I started by analyzing the prototype and seeing what, if any changes were needed. A thicker lid reduced the chances of drilling through the top when installing the hinges. And routing, instead of drilling out the inside, created a more practical compartment.

To facilitate production, I started by building a jig which would allow me to hollow out the boxes accurately and efficiently. I also made a drilling jig which ensured that the holes drilled for the pin hinges were evenly spaced, which is crucial to their operation. And I also made a set of bevels (think sliding bevel, only fixed) to help lay out the carved lid. I also mortised a piece of plywood to hold a lid blank for carving without any clamps.

These four aids did help speed things along, but there is still an awful lot of handwork involved. The outside of the box is shaped by hand, the lid carved and everything sanded. Then I sprayed on three coats of semi-gloss lacquer, applied black flocking to the inside, and buffed the lid. Finally, I installed the pin hinges. Boy, that process sounds a lot quicker than it actually is!

For some reason, I have never experimented with finger joints. But recently, while playing with the dovetail saws at one of the woodworking shows, I found myself addicted to cutting them. Here's one of the better joints I cut:

While quite time consuming to cut by hand, they are relatively quick to do by machine (table saw, usually) and very accurate with a jig. Anyhow, I cut the joint in about 20 minutes and knocked it together. It took a bit of prior experimenting to get the fingers the right thickness for the joint to go together well. All the layout was done by eye, and sawing by hand, trusting my semi-practiced hand to saw in a straight line perpendicular to the face and end of the board. The saw didn't leave a perfectly smooth surface, and I think that the slight coarseness acts somewhat like a feather board, or maybe as a better comparison, knurling. The slight "tooth" provides loads of friction, and once assembled, is impossible to take apart by hand (I can wiggle it a bit, if I really try!). And that's without glue or finish!

So, inspired by this (and attracted to the fineness of the joint, I have a new interest. I bought some 5/64"-kerf sawblades and will make a jig to cut finger joints on the table saw. One of my friends, Jessica, has asked me to make a box for her, and I think that this joint would be well suited for what I have in mind.

Oh, and here's the hand-cut finger joint again, this time with something to provide scale:

Wood shavings are cool. They are fun to make. They are fun to play with. That is part of why I enjoy working with handplanes so much. It's not just because of the beautiful, polished surface they leave behind. It's because of the fashion in which they remove wood. I've found that different types of shavings can be produced by skewing the plane, adjusting the mouth opening, depth of cut, and the effective cutting angle (the angle at which the blade enters the wood, measured from the bevel of a low-angle plane or the face of a bench plane blade to the sole of the plane). Also, controlling how the shaving exits the plane has an effect on the shape of the shaving.

First of all, a straight-grained piece of softwood is the best material to use when experimenting, as it's the easiest to plane. And sharp blades are really a must, too. I have found that shavings are a great attention getter - at woodshows, everyone not so interested in the hand planes gravitates towards the shavings. They're just so fascinating!

If you take a bench plane set for a fine cut and push the plane straight over the wood, without skewing it, you will create a tight spiraled shaving. By skewing the plane, the shaving ejects at an angle, creating a long cylindrical shaving, called a spill. The more you skew the plane, the longer the spill you can produce with a given length of wood.

I've found that I can take the heaviest cut with a low-angle plane equipped with a 25-degree blade. With the throat opened up fully, I can take a full 1/16" shaving. The force required to take such a cut is quite a lot - sometimes more than my momentum can provide. For starters, try the edge of a 1/2" or 3/4" thick board. I've done 1-1/2" and it ain't easy. Rather than make these gargantuan shavings on the push stroke, I turn the plane around and pull. Somehow, I feel that I get more control and more power on the pull stroke. Maybe it's because I have no fear of falling into the workpiece. Anyhow, these shavings make neat bracelets.

Another way to alter the type of shaving produced is to control how it is ejected from the plane. Uninhibited, the shaving out of a bench plane comes out in a curl. But if you put a finger in the mouth (from above), effectively preventing the shaving from ejecting cleanly, you will end up with a wrinkled shaving. A similar shaving can be produced by using a plane with a high effective cutting angle. You can get a similar effect using a shoulder plane, whose body impedes the clean ejection of shavings.

I love modern art.

More precisely, I love making modern art.

Even more precisely, I love making a mockery of modern art.

This weekend, I am in Portland, Oregon working the Portland Woodworking Show for Lee Valley Tools. Popular demos included sharpening, hand planes, and the new dovetail saws. I started out this morning playing with the 14-tpi rip dovetail saw, cutting straight lines parallel to and as close as possible to the previous cut, resulting in a comb-like end on the board. Over the day, other people came along and made more cuts in the end of the few small boards we had on hand.

Later on, I picked up the Low-Angle Smooth Plane and brought it over to a piece of 2" thick basswood and started planing the edge. It seems that everybody these days likes to demo how fine of shavings can be produced with a hand plane. So I started there, making shavings that woud cling to me with static electricity. Then, half a rotation of the Norris adjuster at a time, I increased the depth, trying to see how thick of a shaving I could cut. I stopped when I reached 1/32", measured with a pair of calipers. That, 2" wide and about 18" long, was a pretty hard cut to make.

At the end of the day when things had quieted down, I was looking at the short boards with comb-like ends. I got thinking that some of the shavings I had made with the plane would probably fit into the kerfs, so I fit a shaving between two "teeth". Michelle came over and grabbed a second "comb" and fit it on the opposite end of the shaving. Then we added two more shavings, and voila!

I have, after much deliberation, decided that I don't really have a suitable place to display such a magnificent work of art. Therefore, I am putting it up for sale. Based upon some very complicated pricing formulas, I have settled upon a price of $15,000.

Remember: it's art.

Recently, a friend approached me and enthusiastically pitched his case to me. Gerald has a massive solid oak dining table with three table leaves. His family often reconfigures the size of the table so of course want to have the leaves convenient. In their previous house, there was a little nook just the right size to store the three leaves, but not in their new house. Looking for a solution, he searched the internet for inspirations and found a picture of an open cabinet to store table leaves vertically. With half the problem solved (the concept), Gerald came to me asking me to build one to match his table, both in colour and style. At first, I wasn't too interested - staining wood has always been a bitter point for me. For one, colour matching can be very hard, and different types of light can make colours seem different as well. Also, I have this slight adversion to staining wood. I've always preferred a clear finish. But Gerald really wanted this piece and he wanted me to make it. He won me over, and I took the job. The first step was to see the table and the table leaves. So I visited Gerald's house and took pictures and measurements of the dining table and leaves.

That gave me all the details I needed to design the Table Leaf Storage Unit. So I went home and drew up a set of plans. For most of my work, I don't bother with drawings, plans, or cutting lists. But in this case, because it has to match the table and fit the leaves, the size is critical.

I got the plans approved and got started on the build. It was straightforward - laminated strips for the top, a bullnose molding below, four frames mortise and tenoned together and a base. I added strips of wood to create steps in the base to support each leaf by the edge of the leaf, as opposed to just the bullnose molding. For finishing, Gerald and I collaborated testing different stains and settled with a gel stain called Early American. How they come up with these names is beyond me. Maybe it simulated the dirt and grime built up on furniture built way back when? Anyhow, the stain went on, followed by three coats of an oil/varnish blend. I had to be careful not to get too much gloss. The end product looks great. I'm really happy with it. Gerald and his wife are really happy with it. Life is good.

Best of all, I learned that staining isn't all that bad. It's nothing to be feared. Sure it's an art and can require a lot of skill to pull of certain effects, but it is certainly not something you should avoid doing just because you don't think you can. Staining, glazing, dying, toning... it can be intimidating, but it can be learned. One step at a time.

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Four same-sized off-cuts of Pacific yew just begged to be shown off. The amazing colour. The grain. Each piece was thin, long and narrow, restricting my options of what it could be used for. I have always found decorative boxes fascinating and there are really no rules when building one. Four pieces of spectacular wood for a series of four boxes. Each box, I decided, would be completely different from the others. Not to detract from the focus - the yew - I chose plain maple to construct the bodies of the boxes. All the boxes were finished with given a name describing the yew, carved in Latin with a V-tool, and finished on the outside with Shellawax. Overall dimensions given are length x width x height, in inches.

CETERA DESUNT ("the rest is missing")

13 x 2-9/16 x 1-5/8

If simple construction, the body was made from a single block of wood. I sawed off the front and back and, after hollowing out the center, glued them back on. The lift-off lid sits positively in the recessed body. The openings adjacent to the lid offer a glimpse into what may be contained within, teasing its audience while the curvaceous lettering blended with straight lines mimics the shape of the box itself.

IN MEDIAS RES ("in the midst of things")

11-1/8 x 3 x 1-3/4

Featuring a slick, sliding lid which will almost open by itself this box is just fun to play with. All the joinery of this box is cut at the table saw. Rabbets in the front and back accept the ends, and the bottom and sliding top are also rabbeted to fit in their respective grooves.

INTRA MUROS ("within the walls")

11-5/8 x 3 x 1-7/16

Framed by a mitered border, the yew really stands out as the center of attention. It's clean lines are accentuated by the ultra-modern lettering style which wraps around the box, unifying the lid and box. The lift-off lid registers securely on the base thanks to carefully cut rabbets.

NE NIMIUM ("not too much")

11-1/4 x 2-5/8 x 2-5/16

The cleanest and simplest design, the body is joined with dados and rabbets and the bottom simply glued on. A shallow rabbet around the outside of the lid permits a secure seat atop the box.

I wrote this after cutting myself on a plane blade that jumped out of a wooden plane due to a poorly set wedge (my fault). Only a minor injury requiring no more than a band-aid to remedy.

With the planes I played

My love never swayed

'Til I took the pass

That was my last

For out popped the blade

My right hand filleted

And now of the blade

Ever-sharp, I am afraid

Today was a beautiful day - warm and sunny. I went to work and, four hours later when I finished, my left side was completely soaked, my right side was dry, and I was standing two inches taller. What was I doing? Do you need a hint? If not, I know that you have done it before or heard this story before.

Hint #1: Shavings. Okay, that's probably not much help as I'm sure you already guessed it had something to do with woodworking. Now think - what would produce shavings like those?

Hint #2: What is that blurry thing in the foreground?

Hint #3: Okay... what does this have to do with the other two pictures? Everything!

Got it? Yes, I was turning some very green wood. Yesterday, my friend Dave brought down an apple tree on a lot where a house was levelled the previous week. Today, he and I went back to the site and milled the tree into boards. Using aluminum rails to guide the chainsaw, outfitted with and Alaskan mill, Dave cut off a 3" thick slab off the top so that there would be a flat surface on which the mill could rest on for the next cut. The rest of the cuts were done with the mill set to cut at 2-1/2" thick. I loaded the wood into my truck and drove home, stacked and stickered the bole on a skid in my backyard. I decided to turn some bowls out of the 3" thick slab, so I laid out three blanks with a clear plastic circle template (awesome tool, by the way - every bowl turner should have one!). I cut out the rounds on the bandsaw and bored a 1/4" hole in the center of the side we'd milled flat (the other side was still covered with bark) for mounting on a screw chuck. I threaded the screw chuck onto the headstock of my lathe, spun on the bowl blank, checked by hand that the blank spun free and that the lathe was set at its lowest speed and turned the lathe on. Immediately, water started flying off the blank like a sprinkler. I covered the bed of my jointer located 6' in front of the lathe with a towel and sprayed on a fresh coat of Boeshield on my bandsaw table directly adjacent to the lathe. I slowly turned up the variable speed of the lathe until it and the bench it was clamped to started to shake, then backed it off until the shaking stopped. Then I started to turn.

For years, my friend and lumber hook-up Dave has been using a hastily-designed rack for his chainsaw chains. Made of Pacific yew, it is sturdy enough and looks very nice with beautiful colouring and two live edges. However, it doesn't stand up on it's own and doesn't fare much better when propped up against something, so it often lays down on one face. A chain threaded through holes at one end allow the rack to be hung. There are chains on each side of the rack - dull on one side and sharp on the other side. However, there is no easy way to differentiate the sharp from the dull, nor are there any provisions for keeping the chains on the dowel posts they loop around so they frequently slipped off and had to be wrestled back onto their respective posts. And there is no easy way to carry the rack other than by the same dowel posts.

So when Dave asked me to make him a new chain rack, I immediately had some ideas. I started by adding a cutout at the midpoint of the body to carry the rack by, where it would also be balanced. I went from dowel posts to eliptical blocks with eccentric caps, which when rotated 180 degrees, prevent the chains from sliding off. I kept the hanging feature as an option, but added a base to allow the rack to stand on edge. This allows access to both sides of the rack. And to differentiate the sharp chains from the dull, I made the body of the rack from two pieces of maple - one which I had dyed dark brown and one left natural.

I joined the base to the body with a looooong sliding dovetail. I cut the slot in the base with a hand held router and a straight edge, wasting away the bulk with a straight bit, then finishing up with a dovetail bit. I milled the male part on the body using my table-mounted router, testing frequently to get a good fit. In hindsight, I should have made it a tapered dovetail, but I didn't think to at the time. So I kept trimming down the dovetail and testing the fit. When it fit well, I started putting it together. Well, I got it about 6" in and it started to get tight. What I should have done was pull the joint apart and trim it down some more. But I figured, it's fit this far, so why won't it go all the way? So I beat on it. And I beat on it more. It must have sounded like a pile-driver to the neighbors. Eventually, I got it together. Nothing split. And there is certainly no need for glue. And it looks awesome and works well to boot!

I just finished and delivered this demilune table (demilune means half-moon). It is made of Pacific yew and was custom made to fit against a short wall has a strategically placed shelf above a cold air return duct and below the power outlet and phone jack.

The most challenging part in the construction was making the bent-laminated apron. I made form and used all the clamps I could fit to hold the laminations to the form while the glue cured. With shop-made veneer, I covered the apron and drawer face to achieve the continuous grain right through. On either side, to accent the drawer, I added dark-brown-dyed maple moldings to draw the eye to the drawer. I carved and dyed a matching pull.

A few years ago, I built a small treasure chest out of oak and forged the strap hardware for it as well as the handles. It is still one of my favourite projects and I have longed to make another, of larger scale. Two weeks ago, I got word that Peter Turner was working on a book on blanket chests and that was all that it took to get me to started.

I had two weeks to build the chest, so I couldn't afford to waste any time. With my original chest as a rough target of what I wanted to build, I omitted drawings and just built as I saw fit.

I searched through my wood piles for any suitable wood that was dry enough. My best bet, I concluded was a selection of 8/4 Pacific yew that was unusually dark and appeared to be slightly spalted. I crunched numbers to see if I would have enough wood to make the chest if I made the parts finished 3/4" thick. What did I conclude? It would be close. Darn close. With nothing to lose, I went for it. I resawed and surfaces all the yew I had laid out the boards on my bench to match grain and colour.

I glued up the sides, front and back, and turned my focus to the coopered top. I started by determining the span of the lid - 21". From there, I drew a pleasing curve on a scrap of wood with points 21" apart. I cut bevels on the edges of the top staves on the jointer, test-fitting each part against its mate and comparing the resultant angle to the curve I'd drawn. When I was happy with the angles, I began gluing up. Normally, I'd use pinch dogs (incredibly useful, but unfortunately not well known any more), but because I had so little stock they were not an option as they leave holes in the end grain (which would normally be cut off). So instead, I resorted to packing tape and clamps. I really wish I'd been able to use pinch dogs - they would made my life so much easier. I glued up the staves in three stages, then glued the three assemblies together.

After the glue had cured, I surfaced the insides of the sides, front, back, and lid. I used a curved-soled plane to work the underside of the lid. At this stage, I did the majority of the contouring on the sides, front and back. I used my #9, #7, #5, and #3 gouges for most of the work, then refined the surface with a curved scraper. It is much easier to carve now than when the box is assembled. Next, I drew an angle on the front that represented the angle at which the sides, front and back would cant outwards. To draw the angle, I simply took a straight scrap of wood and placed it across the board at an angle and adjusted it until I was happy with it. The angle I settled with was about 2.5 degrees. I went to the table saw, set my miter gauge to that angle, and cut the sides, front and back to that angle, cutting them to length at the same time. While at the table saw, I also cut a 3/8" groove at the bottom to accept the bottom. I stopped the groove short of the ends on sides so that it would not be visible on the assembled chest.

The next step was to cut the dovetails at the corners. I had never attempted to cut dovetails by hand on such wide boards. With wider boards, it is tougher as there are more pins and tails to make match! The carved sides were an added challenge for me. I started my usual way, cutting the pins, then transferring their locations to the tail boards, wasting away between the tails, and paring with a chisel until they fit. I found this incredibly tedious and not all that accurate. Then I tried cutting to the line when cutting the tails, eliminating all the test fitting. Now, with my first test fit, I find the problematic areas and correct them. On the second test fit, I can close the joint. I dry fit the chest. This was my first chance to see how big this chest would really be. Onto the lid.

The coopered lid, by nature, leaves a large arced hole below. I cut a curved piece of wood from the top of the sides so that the grain would match and glued it in place. I then smoothed the outside curve with planes and scrapers. Then I placed the lid on top of the dry-fit box and trimmed the lid down to size. I had deliberately built it oversized. It is easier to trim the lid smaller than to trim the box smaller.

The last component of the box was the bottom. In case anyone had any doubts of how close I would be in materials, I had to make the bottom from 24 pieces of wood, glued up in a brick-laid fashion. When the glue had dried, I cut a rabbet around the bottom to raise the panel, then did a final dry-fit followed by the final glue-up. The glue-up didn't go as smoothly as the dry run, but it went together. I finished carving the chest, blending the curves around the joints.

I bought some 1-1/2" wide, 1/8" steel strapping for the strap hardware and started by forming the knuckles for the hinges. I bent the straps to match the carved contours of the chest and the coopered top by hand, using a pair of dogs in my vise as fulcrums. It wasn't difficult at all, but required a lot of testing. The handles were formed from 1-1/2" angle iron. I bored holes to accept cut nails and spray painted them with four coats of black "hammered" paint.

Meanwhile, I finished the chest with five coats of orange shellac, a 1lb cut. When everything had dried, I fastened the hardware to the chest. I used cut nails (vastly different and superior in holding strength than common wire nails) and went with 1-1/2" nails for the critical points and clinched (bent over) them on the inside.

The void at the front right serves as a handle to lift the lid with.

About a month ago, I got an e-mail from a couple who had the maple tree from their yard cut down and milled into boards. And they wanted to turn it into something useful. So I ventured into New Westminster to have a first-hand look at what we were dealing with. The maple that they had was very dark for a maple, and I could tell that this wood was special. Aside from the colour, the slabs also had two natural edges each. We decided to make a bench from one slab to get started. I started by debarking the edge, as part of the bark was falling off. Next, I surfaced both sides with a scrub plane and scrapers and finished off by carving the ends of the board. I delivered the bench, and upon seeing how amazing it looked, they decided that it was too nice to sit on, and that it was destined to be a table. Here is side A.

And here is side B. It has not yet been decided which side will be the top.

Upon delivery, they asked me to make a small table slab of the same style.

These are only slabs, as the clients have decided that they like the look of a metal base. I am in awe at how these slabs look. Simply amazing.

Well, at 10:00 pm, I just finished cleaning my machine shop. It's definitely clean and pretty organized. Organization is one of those things that is never complete - there is always something else to be done, something that can be improved. And there is nothing - NOTHING - that can take the big grin of my face. I'm overjoyed (and frankly amazed) at having a clean shop to work in. (What do I do with all this space?) A big thanks to my uncle, Tim, who spent two of his days off helping me build the miter/band saw station as well as organizing.

Woodworkers use clamps for many tasks, but most importantly for clamping work together while the glue sets. Some clamps, like spring clamps are fairly weak and apply about 35 lbs of force. At the other end of the scale, heavy duty bar clamps can exert up to 6800 lbs, and C-clamps can exert well over 7500 lbs. So how much pressure should you put on a glue-up? The answer: it depends. Obviously, you don't want to put so much pressure on that you crush the wood fibers. And scrap pieces of wood, called cauls, are very useful in distributing pressure and avoiding fiber-crushing. But how much pressure really depends on what type of glue you are using.

The most commonly used glue in woodworking is PVA, or polyvinyl acetate. Examples of PVA glues are white glue or yellow (carpenter's) glue. These glues are entirely synthetic and bond wood very well. Hide glue has been the traditional glue used in woodworking and it has many benefits that can be credited for its continued use today. Other glues used in woodworking include epoxy and cyanoacrylate (Super Glue). If glue and clamped well, the glue line will in fact be stronger than the wood itself. To test how strong your glue joint is, try gluing to pieces of wood together, edge to edge. Once the glue has dried, break the two boards apart. If you are good, the wood adjacent to the glue line will fail, often along the grain, so part of one board will remain bonded to the other. If your joint was weak, the two pieces will separate along the glue line.

So how do you create a strong glue joint? Well, it starts with proper glue application. With PVAs, you really can't use too much glue. Well, you can over-apply PVA, but you won't create a weaker joint - you will only make more clean-up for yourself later. While it is better to have too much than too little, it isn't hard to get the right amount of glue in the joint.

We will use, for example, gluing two boards edge-to-edge. The long grain (edge or face) of a board creates a much stronger bond than end grain. Any joint involving the end grain should be reinforced if it needs to endure any stresses. The first step in a successful glue up, as with anything, is proper preparation. The two edges should fit well, with no light visible between them, which signals gaps. True, the mighty clamps are able to close some small gaps, but I don't like to rely on them for that too much. But some woodworkers do, and they in fact take advantage of this and create what is known as a sprung joint. A sprung joint is made with two slightyly concave edges, so that the ends touch, but there is a slight gap in the middle. The great benefit of this is that fewer clamps are needed to hold the joint together (as few as one!). Once you've prepared the mating edges, it is wise to do a dry run. That is, to put the joint together, in clamps but without the glue. Just to make sure that everything works as it should. It also gets your clamps set to the right opening, making for a more efficient glue up. Glue ups are one of the most stressful parts of woodworking, right up there with finishing. It's the pressure of time, knowing you only have so long before it starts to set. Now you're ready to apply glue. Run a bead of PVA down the center of the board from end to end. For 3/4" stock, I find that a 1/8" wide bead of glue is about right. I also start and stop the bead about 2" from either end. For thicker stock, I run the bead in a zig-zag pattern down the edge. Then it's time to spread the glue. For narrow surfaces, I just use my finger, running it up and down the edge looking for even glue coverage over the entire surface, from end to end. For wider surfaces, I use a the long edge of a 4"x3" piece of 1/8" plywood. Then do the same for the mating edge. Put the two boards together and slide them back and forth against each other a few times. You will notice that in doing so, a sort of hydraulic lock - there will be more resistance to sliding. Put the boards in the clamps and tighten the clamps either from the center outwards or from one end to the other. It's not good practice to clamp from the ends towards the center. I find that PVA glues work best with a zero-thickness glue line, so I apply as much pressure as I can comfortably. Use lots of clamps. As you apply clamping pressure, watch that the boards stay properly aligned with each other. You may use either dowels or biscuits to aid in alignment, but I have gotten into the habit of gluing up before the final surfacing, so minor misalignments aren't a big deal. Once the clamps are applied, you should ideally see little beads of glue on the surface all along the glue line. This means that you used the right amount of glue. Some woodworkers like to clean up the squeeze-out right away with a damp cloth, but I feel the best way is to wait for the glue to semi-harden to a rubbery consistency. Then it is easy to remove without making a mess using a chisel. Sometimes, I also wait for the glue to dry completely, then scrape it off. This works well on hard woods, but on softer wood, it tends to take pieces of wood with the glue resulting in what looks like tearout.

If you are using hide glue, your procedure will be different. Sprung joints don't work very well because you don't use clamps! Instead, go for perfect fit between the two mating edges. Then apply a thin layer of hide glue to both edges, just enough to cover the surface. Then let it dry. Now apply the glue to one surface as we did with the PVA. Don't apply any more glue to the other edge. Put the two edges together and rub them together, back and forth to distribute the glue evenly along the entire joint and to create that hydraulic lock. Then set the glue up aside. No clamps, no nothing. That's it.

Well, I spent the last week cleaning my shop. There's still some organizing to do, but it's clean at least!

A few weeks ago, I received a call from my friend Dave. He had just gotten word that two large trees - a large Norway Maple and an even larger elm - had just been brought down. He asked me if I was interested in any of the wood. He mentioned that the elm was about 15 feet long, from and the maple roughly 10 feet long. At this point, I was just working through the last of the maple I had gotten from Dave over a year ago and was looking forward to working with some different woods. I told him that I was definitely interested in the elm, but not so sure about the maple. "I have a good feeling about about this maple, Chris." Dave continued. "It's got potential." I gave in (I seem to have this weakness for wood) and told Dave to go ahead and buck the logs to a workable length and have them loaded into his trailer.

Last week, Dave had the four halves (two maple, two elm) loaded into his trailer with a crane and he and I made a date to mill the logs Saturday. The past week had been hot, and we knew that Saturday was going to be no different. In an attempt to beat the heat, we met up at 7:30 am and drove to the empty lot where he normally mills lumber. Unfortunately for us, the open lot provided no shade other than from a telephone pole. Upon arrival, we removed the back gate of the trailer to facilitate unloading and I got my first good look at what we were up against.

The elm logs were each about 7' long and 36" diameter. The maples were about 5' long and 28" diameter. We estimated that the small logs weighed about 600 lbs and the largest upwards of 800 lbs. To unload the trailer, Dave pushed a button to activate the hydraulic ram which tilted his trailer bed. Slowly, the bed went up. 10 degrees. Nothing. 20 degrees. Nothing. 30 degrees. Still nothing moving. 40 degrees. Nothing. 45 degrees... all of a sudden, the logs slid out and hit the ground. The three bottom logs hit the ground and stopped. The log on top shot out, hit the ground, and rolled 20' to the right before coming to a stop.

Dave hopped in his truck and pulled forward and the three bottom logs dropped to the ground. We used a peavy to roll the logs far enough apart to give us enough room to work. The first order of business was to unpack all the tools and equipment. We used a chainsaw with a 42" long cutting bar equipped with a 48" Alaskan Mill attachment. Dave uses a heavy-duty chain designed for strenuous ripping. It takes a monster kerf of 0.404" (almost 7/16").

The first cuts were done with the mill running along two straight aluminum rails, which effectively flattened one face of the log. For efficiency, we used the rails to flatten off all four logs first, then put the rails away, reset the depth of cut and proceeded milling. Subsequent cuts were made with the mill riding directly off the last cut surface. As the cut progresses, we would insert wedges to keep the kerf open. Wedges were always used in pairs, one at each edge of the slab. Depending on the length of cut, we used up to six wedges. The first log we milled was the largest of the bunch - an elm. It was just over 36" wide at the widest point. Though Dave did most of the milling, we did a few cuts together, with one of us at either end of the mill to guide it through the cut. I timed a couple cuts, and with a sharp chain, these wide cuts in the hard elm took roughly six minutes. Though the first cut only revealed plain off-white sapwood, subsequent cuts revealed more and more dark, beautiful heartwood. Each slab from this log, at 7' long, 36" wide, 2.5" thick, and green, was all that the two of us could manage to get it into his trailer, one end at a time. When he built his trailer, Dave was wise enough to incorporate a steel roller at the back of the trailer which made our job of loading much easier.

After finishing the first elm, the biggest log to mill, we moved on to the second, smaller elm. We got a rhythm going and worked our way through the second elm and the two maples in good time. What really helped was that I was able to load each slab into the trailer myself. Dave manned the saw, I inserted wedges behind him, and at the end of the cut, I would load the slab into the trailer while he would start to mill the next slab. That way, Dave never needed to stop the saw. We did have to change the chain a few times though. In the first maple, we found some amazing colour.

However, further down in the maple, we hit a nail and broke a tooth on the chain. We replaced the chain and carried on. At 4:30, we finished milling and loaded the trailer.

We retreated to Dave's house and cooled down and rehydrated. The thermometer outside read 27 degrees in the shade. In the sun, it must have been 35 degrees. Nine hours of hard, physical work in full sun and 35-degree temperatures warrants a day off, if anything does. We went through 3 liters of oil, plus a many liters of gasoline, and five chain loops. Oh, but what a haul! (Now what am I going to do with all this beautiful wood?)

I have been experimenting with different types of joinery. On my second prototype of a seating bench, I experimented with triple offset tenons and wedged triple offset tenons. I liked the cleanliness of the triple offset tenons but didn't care for the complicating detail of the wedges. When a finish is applied, more soaks into the end grain, making it darker, further enhancing and highlighting the joint. The triple tenon is a very nice joint, but for best effect I feel that each tenon should be at least twice as wide as it is thick. That requirement is limiting in furniture work as the design requires wide boards, which often doesn't work with the design.

So I went back to the drawing board to come up with another type of joinery and came up with the quadruple tenons, arranged in a diamond shape. I started with 1-1/4" square stock and cut them on the table saw. Using a thin-kerf blade, I made a series of cuts to form nine tenons. I intentionally set the blade a shade deeper than 1-1/4" so that the tenons would protrude slightly from the mortises, making it easy to trim them flush after glue-up. Moving to the work bench, chiseled away the four corner tenons as well as the center tenon. The corner tenons were simple to remove; the center tenons was a challenge because the four remaining tenons limited how I could approach it. So what I did was use a 1/4" chisel to split the center tenon into multiple "splinters". Then I used a pair of forceps to pull out each splinter.

The next challenge, the harder part was to make matching mortises. I carefully positioned the tenons against the part to be mortised and transfered the locations with a marking knife. Then I moved to the drill press to drill out the majority of the waste before carefully squaring the mortises with a 1/8" chisel, slowly sneaking up to the scribed line. Initially, I had tried a 1/4" chisel, but found that it was difficult to cut the full width of the mortise from a round hole. I could have used the 1/4" chisel for the final cuts, but found it to be unnecessary. I dry-fitted the joint, then applied glue. To close up the joint, I applied a clamp with a specially made caul to bridge the proud tenons.

I later experimented with moving the tenons over to the edge, eliminating one of the shoulders. This makes the fitting slightly easier, as one mortise is open on one side, allowing it to be cut with a saw. It also exposes the joint from one side and highlight the joint.

This box was built from butternut using only hand tools. I started with green boards of butternut and planed them down with a jack plane, cut the half-lap joints with a chisel and skew-rabbet plane, and glued and nailed the joints. I glued and nailed on the bottom with two nails - the other two nails were docked and only serve to keep the box from rocking. Everything was laid out using my eye and a carpenter's pencil. No tape measure, no ruler, no marking knife.

Carving the four sides took about five hours total. The ends each took about 8 minutes to layout and carve, the back about 12 minutes. Yes, the relief carving on the front took a lot of work. This simple box started out as a simple, fun project but escalated to a much more involved and meaningful one.

Tolerances have been at the forefront of my mind for months. Nowadays in fine woodworking, it seems as if everyone strives for perfection. Boards must be four-squared (faces parallel to each other and edges square to the faces), joints have to be seamless, and everything has to be perfectly smooth. That is the result of tight tolerances. If tolerances are let slip and an edge is not straight, a joint does not fit well, or a surface is rough, it is easy to criticize the work.

But what if that edge was not meant to be straight? What if the joint was meant to be ill-fitting? Or the surface meant to be rough? If these characteristics were intended, then can it be argued that high tolerances have still been maintained and only the perceived result has changed? It is this question that I hope to answer with this box. Perhaps a better question is: "What is a flaw?" Is a flaw still a flaw if it was intended to be as it is?

Have a look at this box (yes, it's better to see it in person). The wood has very nice colouring to it and the carvings were done very nicely. In fact, the joke is that I did too good a job on the carving. As you look closer, you begin to notice more.

There is one live edge along the front of the base. There are four live edges along the top edges of the box and none line up perfectly. Actually, one corner is out by over 1/8", but the grain matches well at all four corners. The front, back, and ends all vary in thickness. One even visibly tapers in thickness! Looking inside, you see that there is a long gap between the two boards which were glued up for width. And from the end, the corner of one bottom board is chipped. The chamfer around the edges is irregular, but clean. There are a couple areas around the carving that look a little rough and the wood around some of the nail heads is partly crushed from over-enthusiastic hammering. You set the box down and look at it again. Isn't "tolerence" spelled with an "a"?

Yesterday, I had a bit of a scary moment.  I needed to glue something together, so I found my bottle of Hot Stuff (fast setting cyanoacrylate adhesive, commonly known as Super Glue).  I took off the black cap, put the tip to the piece I was gluing, and squeezed.  Nothing.  I wasn't in the shop and didn't feel like going back down to unplug the tip, so I unscrewed the lid.  I know that this stuff is very viscous, so I figured that I could pour some into the underside of the tip, then dip the part into the glue.

So I did that, and as I dipped the part in, I inadvertently tipped the bottle and poured about 1/2 oz over my hands and onto the concrete ground. Thinking quickly, I put everything down and spread my fingers apart.  By flexing my fingers, I could tell when the glue had set.  It gave off some heat, but not much.  Now that the glue on my hands had dried (my left hand was well-covered and I couldn't move my last two fingers), I pulled my right hand into my sleeve so I didn't glue my hand to the part and put the part in place.  Then I stood up.  And found that my shoe had been glued to the concrete sidewalk. But the concrete, being porous, didn't create a strong bond so I was lucky.  I put the cap on the Hot Stuff and tried to pick up the bottle.  Only it too was stuck to the side walk.  A little brute force and it gave way.

I used a rag to wipe up the Hot Stuff I'd spilled on the sidewalk as best as I could (it had pooled, so it didn't dry instantaneously.  I went inside and soaked my hands in hot water (CA isn't very resistant to moisture or heat) and scrubbed and flexed my fingers.  After ten minutes, there was a huge improvement in my ability to use my hands.  Currently, I still have a thin layer on parts of my hands, but full flexibility.  Whew!

May 11, I decided that it was time to rid my 8" jointer (Delta DJ-20) of its dull knives. I carefully removed the blades and found that they were hopelessly dull. Must have been that lignum vitae. Rather than send the knives out to be sharpened or purchase new knives, I decided to spring for a spiral cutter head with carbide cutters. That afternoon, I ordered a Shelix (Shear + Helix) cutter head from the Byrd Tool Company in Kentucky. The 8" long cutter head cost $449.00 US, plus $45 shipping for a total of $494.00. I was nervous about getting gouged by customs and anxiously awaited my order, which was shipped out by UPS.

Well, yesterday, May 20, the Shelix arrived. To my surprise, there was no duties or customs fees. The package was as durable as it was ugly - pine sides, 2x lumber ends, and OSB for the lid with drywall screws holding everything together.

I eagerly raced downstairs and unpacked the crate. Included were the cutter head, a screwdriver with a Torx bit, a case containing five spare cutters, and instructions for changing the cutters. The cutter head itself weighs 15 pounds, the same weight at the stock cutter head.

The first step was to remove the old cutter head. I took off the fence by removing the two locking nuts and washer on the underside, then lifting the fence off. Then I backed off the stops for both the infeed and outfeed tables, then lowered them as far as possible. I did not want to have to remove the tables. I removed the four bolts and their accompanying washers which were securing the bearing-housing blocks at either end of the cutter head. Then I took the drive belt off the pulleys. At this point, I could have removed the cutter head, but by first removing the rabbeting ledge, the job was made easier. With the knives removed, the cutter head barely fits out between the edges of the infeed and outfeed tables.

By the way, it would be wise to remove the set screws assemblies used to fine-tune the blade height before going too far. I somehow managed to loose four of the six.

Once I got the cutterhead out, I brought in into my bench room for disassembly. This assembly weighs 23 pounds, by the way. Before you begin though, take careful notes of how it looks now. Measure the gaps between the cutter head and the bushing-housing blocks, as well as between the bushing-housing block and pulley. Trust me on this. Also note the orientation of the parts and lay them out in the order they are removed.

For removal, I used a pair of like-sized, plastic-coated pry bars on opposite sides to balance forces. This worked surprisingly well and only took a few minutes to remove the pulley and both blocks. By the way, the pulley first needed to be unbolted from the end. One of the bearings came out of its housing block. No big deal. If this happens, reseat it with a piece of round stock of the same diameter as the outside of the bearing. A key fitted to a groove in the cutter head's shaft engages with a groove in the pulley to keep it from spinning. The key also needs to be removed and fitted to the Shelix cutterhead. Again, take note of how far the key protrudes and which way it is oriented (curved end in). I removed the key with light taps from a hammer.

Once everything was apart, reassembly began. I used a parallel bar clamp to press everything together. Note the wooden block on the left side. It has a hole bored into it to accept the protruding shaft where the pulley will go. The block of wood allows pressure to be applied to the bearing housing block to press it into place. I needed to use a great deal of force to press the parts together. Keep a close eye on the alignment to make sure that everything goes on straight. Finally, I tapped the key into the groove and pressed and bolted the pulley in place.

To install the Shelix in my jointer, I needed to remove about a dozen of the cutters to fit between the infeed and outfeed beds. All that's left is to bolt down the bearing-housing blocks, reinstall any removed cutters, hook up the drive belt, replace the fence and rabbeting ledge and guard, and adjust the tables. The switch took about two hours and miraculously invoked no cursing or head-scratching.