Must Take All

In the home where we have been staying, the phone line and internet connection has been essentially disabled for the past week.  There is such severe interference on the line that voice communication is almost impossible.  The response from a service desk personnel to one of my calls for repair could have been amusing if it hadn't been so frustrating:

"I can hear someone is there but I can't understand what you're saying!"

The phone line needs repair, you goof.

Unfortunately, Alaska Communications Systems, the provider for both our phone line and internet, has a Policy that the account holder, and only the account holder, can order repair work before they can issue a service ticket.

Unfortunately, the account holder is on a boat anchored outside of Puerto Williams, a small isolated city of roughly 2000 people on the Beagle Canal in the far southern tip of Chile.

Unfortunately, the satellite phone the account holder carries for emergency communication ends up dropping the call before the interminable maze of routing messages and holds can be navigated in reaching the ACS service desk.

Unfortunately, the email capability the account holder has through their single sideband radio on their boat isn't acceptable to ACS because it doesn't originate from one of the two email accounts they have on file for the account holder, even though it clearly states and identifies the account holder and that they wish to have the phone line fixed.

It's one of those policies with a huge, bold, capital "P."

To be fair, I suspect the competent folk at the ACS service desk are aware of that.  In my last conversation with them they were actually quite apologetic and conciliatory - he kept answering my questions with the disclaimer: "What I have been told by our business office is..."

In other words, please don't shoot the messenger.

Days like these aren't easy nor fun.  But life's like that.  One day you might find a great treasure at a garage sale, then the next day all you can do is build the box that will help you hold and remember it.

And you must take all.

Western Red Cedar, Tung oil finish

Boneshakers

Theresa has been starting to ride her bicycle daily to work which I think is quite an accomplishment.  It's a 25 mile round trip, and the benefits she gains with the drop of elevation in the morning is paid dearly on her uphill climb home.  It's a testament to her endurance and inner strength that she continues to leave each morning, pushing her bike out of the garage with panniers stuffed with her lunch, change of clothes, and books.

Bikes are modes of transportation that have been around for quite some time.  About.com records the earliest form of two wheeled transportation to be

"in 1790 by Comte Mede de Sivrac of France. Called a celerifere, it was a wooden scooter-like device with no pedals or steering."

From there we gained the velocipede, the penny farthing, and pneumatic tires by 1888.  Today bicycles have advanced to include all kinds of exotic components and carbon fiber.  Take a tour of your local bike shop - the sticker shock will reveal just how far this technology has come.

But our bikes are old.  We love them, and they have seen a lot of miles.  Both are Gary Fishers of mid 90's vintage that, along with all of the local use, have taken us on two self supported tours through the southern mountains of British Columbia; a road tour of Highway 1 between Calgary and Vancouver, followed two years later by the abandoned and scenic Kettle Valley Railway between Castlegar and Hope.  

And they've been abused.  For the last eight years they've seen a lot of their life strapped to the lifelines of our sailboat.  They've hauled propane, groceries and kids with the help of a Chariot double trailer and navigated the trails and loops of Unalaska Island in the Aleutians.

It's not surprising they're showing wear and tear.  It was high time for some sorely needed attention.

I began by digging through my toolbox and locating my bicycle toolkit.  Bicycle maintenance is an interesting diversion from the standard fasteners, with toothed sockets and slim metric wrenches becoming the requirement.  Stripping them down revealed a few dry bearings and pitted races in the drivetrain.  New pedals, chain, and a bottom bracket cartridge soon had the wheels spinning again like new.

But the hills still hurt.  Too bad our old muscles and bones can't be resurrected as easily as our bikes.  But with the gas prices climbing ever higher and higher, that too may be overcome by the end of summer.

Patience and Preserverance

For the last few weeks I've been watching the neighbors next door to see who they were.  I'd just catch occasional, fleeting glimpses of them through the window or hear them calling to each other when I'd be out in the yard, but never well enough to identify them or find out what they were doing here.

The big breakthrough came the other day when I noticed what appeared to be a new building site not far from the house - a few feet up in a newly splintered tree that must have blown down in one of our winter wind storms.  Sure enough, they were obsessed with it.  I could see them flitting around, coming and going.  But try as I might, I just couldn't get close enough to really see what was going on.  The moment I'd get near, they'd vanish.  Then later I would see they would be back, flitting and fluttering around thier particular tree.

But having found their location allowed me to strategize a plan.  Lots of brush nearby; I had an old gray blanket in the car.  Armed with my trusty Nikon equipped with a 70-300 zoom,  the blanket over my head, I attempted this morning to get a few shots.

Turns out the camouflage was a great success.  They didn't seem bothered at all.  And I was able to photograph, identify, and watch with amusement as they continued to build their home one beak-full at a time.

I'm no experienced birder, and the species ended up being a Poecile atricapilla, or common black capped chickadee.  They are frequently found almost everywhere throughout North America.  But they're a neat bird - clear, trilling calls, with legs and feet strong enough to allow them to forage while hanging upside down.

It was a rewarding experience as it was another lesson in the wonderful ways of the world around me.





Plus it's always pleasant to find out that the new neighbors moving in are fellow woodworkers.

A Morning with Morrie

Morrie Schwartz, a professor of Sociology who passed away in 1995 of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis is recorded to have said in his last days:

"We've got a form of brainwashing going on in our country.  Do you know how they brainwash people?  They repeat something over and over.  And that's what we do in this country.  Owning things is good.  More money is good.  More property is good.  More commercialism is good.  More is good.  More is good.  We repeat it - and have it repeated to us - over and over until nobody bothers to even think otherwise.  The average person is so fogged up by all this, he has no perspective on what's really important anymore.  Wherever I went in my life, I met people wanting to gobble up something new.  Gobble up a new car.  Gobble up a new piece of property.  Gobble up the latest toy.  And then they wanted to tell you about it.  'Guess what I got?  Guess what I got?'"  (p. 125 Tuesdays with Morrie, Mitch Albom. Doubleday 1997)

I am working outside swapping the tires on the car from the studded, winter tread to the summer.  It's a simple, physical process that involves removing the tire from the rim and remounting the other.  I could take the car into town and have a shop handle it, but it's one of those tasks I prefer to do myself and it allows me time to let the words of something I have read percolate into the crannies of my mind.  What has driven us to become a society of such gobblers?

I break the bead with an old farm jack.  Jacking against the bumper of an old Suburban adds enough weight to crush the tire, sliding the bead down the rim with a sudden whoosh.

Morrie continues with his line of thought.

"These people were so hungry for love that they were accepting substitutes.  They were embracing material things and expecting a sort of hug back.  But it never works.  You can't substitute material things for love or for gentleness or for tenderness or for a sense of comradship." (Ibid)

I pry the first bead over the rim with a flat tire iron.  I've seen my father do this many times, and in fact this is the same iron he used on the farm.  It is another one of his tools that I collected last summer when we cleaned out his shop and moved him into town.

"Money is not a substitute for tenderness, and power is not a substitute for tenderness.  I can tell you, as I'm sitting here dying, when you most need it, neither money nor power will give you the feeling you're looking for, no matter how much of them you have."  (Ibid)

I hammer the second bead off the rim, using the prybar as a lever to pressure the tire away from the lip.  A few blows from the hammer and the rim pops free.

"There's a big confusion in this country over what we want versus what we need.  You need food, you want a chocolate sundae.  You have to be honest with yourself.  You don't need  the latest sports car, you don't need the biggest house.  The truth is, you don't get satisfaction from those things.  You know what really gives you satisfaction?  Offering others what you have to give."  (Ibid, p 126)

The summer tire is mounted and I begin to inflate it with air.  The beads snap against the sides of the rim with sharp, metallic pops.

"I don't mean money.  I mean your time.  Your concern.  Your storytelling.  It's not so hard.  Devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.  You notice, there's nothing in there about salary.  Do the kinds of things that come from the heart.  When you do, you won't be dissatisfied, you won't be envious, you won't be longing for somebody else's things.  On the contrary, you'll be overwhelmed with what comes back."  (Ibid, p 127-128)

The tires are changed and mounted on the car and all that is left is to clean up.  My back feels a little sore but my heart is light.  Grabbing the last of the tools I walk into the garage and kick off my boots.

Who'd have thought I'd be doing church this morning.

Batons and Breast Drills

This past month I was involved in an interesting conversation with a sibling that explored the idea of what things we inherit from our forefathers and subsequently also pass along to our children.  The discussion may have overstepped some relational boundaries - it suddenly came to an abrupt end - but it did manage to start me thinking about what that inheritance is and what I wish it to look like. 

We can often be convincingly tempted to whitewash history with a rosy brush, especially when aging parents are involved.  And certainly there are many things that we do treasure when we look back on where we came from and what things got us to where we are today.  Traditions, values, religion - all can be important areas of development that we not only cherish, but also wish for our children to assimilate.  Colorful histories, memories of our parents' journeys and their stories all become important foundations to anchor our perceptions of who we are and where we are going.

But as with all things in life, there is always the detritus that must also be identified and sifted.  And that's where the lines begin to fade and we soon find ourselves alienated from each other with fuzzy boundaries on a scary battlefield filled with precipices and powder kegs.  Life is never simple.

So today I chose to focus on something that has tradition, history and inheritable value with complete confidence.  It will get me back onto some safe, solid ground.

It's a two speed breast drill that was probably my grandfather's, although I found it in among my father's tools.  I don't ever remember seeing anyone use it, and the only marking on it is "Jordan Germany."  Not much history can be found about this drill, although there is some information on Jordan Tools to be found here.  

Of course, it needs some work.  The jaw springs are completely messed up, and it's missing its auxillary handle.  But all in all it's in pretty good shape, and I'm excited to get it added to my tool inventory.

Because this is something that I think would be worth passing on to my kids.  And that I hope we can agree on.

The Bog Chair

Now that the weather has been warming up I have been able to take my coffee out on the deck.  I've been sitting out there sometimes for hours on end noticing the increase in wildlife, but try as I might I have yet to capture any pictures.  I'm hearing at least two new species of songbird as well as seeing a lot of tracks from rabbits, moose, and squirrels.  They're there - just not when I'm there.

At least it's given me a chance to try out my latest bog chair.  There are few furniture projects easier than this; it's simply two boards, one mortised to accept the "spoon" end of the other.  Because of it's simplicity, it's also easily disassembled and stored.

I was initially exposed to these chairs by friends who were living in Africa and had purchased chairs from a local market.  They were constructed of hardwood, intricately carved, and to the best of my knowledge were called "African Birthing Chairs."   Of the many versions you will find on the net, I really like this design and because of their simplicity, I am thinking of building a few more.

But with the current success rate of my photography, maybe I should think of adding cushions.

SPF 2X10, linseed oil/paraffin wax/turpentine finish

Dunya Din

The chaos of world events this past month has left me reeling in confusion and grasping for balance.  The devastation of the earthquakes in Japan, the uprising and slaughter of the people in northern Africa along with the military involvement of the west - all deeply disturbing and shattering.  It swept me into a low, hollow place in my own soul - a desperate place, churning with hopelessness for mankind and the earth; sorrow for all the suffering and tragedy.  It left me sitting in silence on a wobbly bench propped up against the outside wall of the garage.

Maybe I could build a new bench.  A bench for meditation and balance.  A bench of tension, solidarity, and harmony.  Today I began to place some ideas down on paper.  I have quite a bit of oak stacked in storage; it would be perfect for the project.

The original idea was gleamed from the Garden Bench featured in Outdoor Woodworking Projects, Plans, Tips and Techniques (p. 8, August Home Publishing, 2010).  I like the idea of splitting the legs in two and notching the stretcher into the uprights.  But I'd like to have the legs mortised into the top.  I'd like it to be simple, clean, and sturdy.  The bench will be 36 inches long, just right for two people to sit side by side.

The split legs could symbolize brokenness and separation.  Yet the stretcher would bring it together, revealing the similarity.  The top would span the openness, providing a place of support.

In respect for the events currently unfolding in the Arabic nations, I then thought of the Islamic principle of dunya din.  It's the simple lifestyle of balancing the spiritual with the physical - God and man.  Akbar S. Ahmed says it this way;

"A good Muslim must balance the world (dunya) with the principles of religion (din).  He or she must live in the real world but be guided by the principles of religion." (p. 27, Islam Today. I. B. Tauris and Co Ltd. 2001)

The idea of seeking guidance through our principles is a good thought.  It is there that we may possibly find a common bench, for the universal belief of truth, justice, mercy and compassion should encompass all flavors of religion, culture and race.

There is hope in that thought, along with much wisdom.  I'd like to carve it into the top of my new bench. 

I will build it.  Then I hope you will come and sit with me.