Go Ask Dad: How to build a pile of expensive wood

Like clockwork, after an incredibly hectic annual work schedule that climaxes in early fall, my end-of-year mindset shifts to an aspiration of a simpler, practical, and artisan lifestyle.

After lifting my nose from the grindstone of deadlines and event production, I begin to fantasize about owning an actual grindstone on which I will sharpen the tools necessary to build not only all that we will need in our home but all I will need to find personal satisfaction in life.

In this state of craft consciousness, the fact that my only real training in woodworking occurred almost 30 years ago in middle school shop class (where I built a very subpar Scooby-Doo clock) is inconsequential.

All I need is the right attitude. Oh, and the right tools, materials, and, heck, someone might peer into my garage while I am building these future heirlooms, so I should probably look the part with the proper attire to affirm their suspicions that I was the type of guy who made things with his hands.

So, like many of us with the right intentions and enthusiasm for a life change, I go out and buy everything I could possibly need (and want) to build, let's say, a birdhouse. I have to start somewhere and work my way up to making a cedar strip canoe.

The MasterCard is soon sweating from the shiny new tools, more expensive than ever wood and materials, as well as new work boots, flannel shirt, and the like.

But now I'm ready to dive in. I'm so prepared that I don't even need to look at plans. I am a craftsman by nature of my look and intention. I can intuit this birdhouse. The measurements and angles will come to me like the poetry of the mind, body, and earth, forming a piece that my two young daughters will not only take pride in but will inspire them to become artisans in their own right. We'll become the type of family that spends their evenings and weekends creating instead of consuming. Yes, this birdhouse is the gateway through which our entire future lies before us.

I place the board across the brand new miter saw, ready to make the first cut. The first cut I've made on such a tool in decades.

"Wow. It is hard to get the marked line perfectly aligned with the laser marking on the saw," I think. "Wait. Should I cut directly on the line? In front of it? Behind it? Will the second piece of wood for the other side be the same size? How will I get them even so the roof fits on top?"

I pop the safety on, squeeze the trigger. "Holy Hell, that is loud and moving fast," I think. "Didn't I nearly cut my thumb off on a band saw in shop class? What will I do if I have an accident? Is a birdhouse really worth me not being able to work anymore because I have half a hand?"

I shake off the butterflies and cut. Then, I do the same for the other side. A few more cuts and I have all of the pieces ready for assembly.

I lay out my cut pieces and realize, oh yeah, the angle at which I cut the sides is too steep. The piece of wood I have cut for the roof won't fit here. Hypotenuses. They were always a struggle for me both years I had to take geometry in high school.

"Do I want to relearn the Pythagorean theorem all over again? Do I want to go back to the store and buy another $50 board? What if the guy at the lumber yard asks why I need another one? Will he see that I am just a poser?” I think to myself as I step away from the workbench. "I wonder if that editor has emailed me back. I should check."

I stack the wood against the garage wall, clean the sawdust from the saw, and put it back in the box to return this weekend.

Maybe I can be the type of artisan who focuses on the skills I've developed over the years and write about the future I want to share with my family. Maybe my girls will one day read my writings and find inspiration in that type of craftsmanship.