Sawdust and Business Cards: A Journey through Woodworker Identity
You know, I spent a lot of my days in the shop, breathing in that rich smell of freshly cut oak and pine, the hum of machines churning away like some kind of mechanical symphony. But, honestly, it was just a few months ago that the idea of a business card slapped me across the face like a wayward board during a bad cut. I was in the middle of making a beautiful walnut table for a client—one of those projects that always seems to spring up just before you think you’ve got time to breathe. And in the back of my mind, the thought of my “brand” was festering like a splinter.
You see, I’ve got one of those “small-town, everyone-knows-everyone” situations going on, where folks come to me because they know I can turn a pile of lumber into something beautiful. But when it came to actually showing it off, well, let’s just say I had my head in the clouds. I thought, “Everyone knows who I am; they’ll remember my work.” Wrong. The moment I handed that stunning table off to the client, I realized it could’ve used a little flair—something a bit more tangible than just my name floating around in people’s minds. So there I was, half freaked out and half excited, thinking about how to make this whole “business card” thing happen.
To be honest, my first stab at designing one was a disaster. I think I spent a whole weekend staring at a blank page in my sketchbook. I sketched out my logo—my buddy’s dog, Barney, had a paw in picking that—and I decided it just had to be rustic, something you’d throw on your fridge and never lose. I mean, I’m a woodworker, not an artist! I chuckled while doodling a hand-drawn silhouette of a router, with some fancy swirls around it. It looked more like something you’d find in a high school art project than a solid business card.
A couple pints into the whole fiasco, I finally just laid the pencil down. I mean, what’s wrong with a little honesty? I almost gave up right then. The thought of just scribbling “John’s Woodworks” in marker across my latest creation honestly began to sound appealing. But I remembered my granddad. He never gave a second thought to what folks thought of his hand-carved furniture. Each piece had a story, and the same should apply to my creations, including that darn business card.
After a sleepless night filled with thoughts about what I wanted people to feel when they held that card, it hit me. “Keep it simple, stupid.” So back to the drawing board I went, with fresh coffee in hand—a real comfort, that sweet smell in the morning air. I decided to create something that felt just as warm and inviting as one of my pieces of furniture.
I went out to my garage, where tons of scraps were piled high—pine, maple, and even the odd pecan here and there. Each piece had a story, flavors of the different projects I’d tackled over the years. I wound up choosing some gorgeous, resilient maple for the base, because if you’ve ever worked with it, you know the grain and color have a way of just shining when finished. After cutting the cards down to size, I sanded them lightly. Ah, that sound—like a gentle breeze through the trees. I can still hear it.
Then came the engraving part. Oh boy. I had my dad’s old CNC machine sitting out there, buried under a mountain of sawdust. I wiped it down, carefully plugged it in, and started setting everything up. There’s always that moment of doubt when machines start making noise, the whirring and clanking—it kinda makes your heart skip a beat. But then, I pressed that button and watched in delight as it whittled away the design into the wood. I nearly laughed out loud when it actually worked—like a little miracle except with sawdust!
As I held those finished cards, I sensed the rough texture under my fingers, something real to show people. There it was, my small piece of identity captured in wood, with my logo, a little handmade twist, and my contact info that I’d finally decided to add. I envisioned folks holding it. Maybe they’d take it home and slip it in their wallets, or toss it onto the kitchen counter next to a stack of other cards. But the cards would have something special—each would be unique, just like the pieces I build.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it was no easy feat getting those cards out there. Folks were surprised—some even commented on the feel of them. “These are wood, huh? Pretty neat!” And I would just beam with pride, feeling that warmth and connection as people clutched their little slice of craftsmanship.
So, what’s the takeaway from my adventure? Well, if you’re a woodworker thinking about getting into this whole business card scene—just go for it! It doesn’t have to be perfect. We’re all flawed, like a little knot in the wood. Sometimes, those imperfections make it even more memorable. You never know who might end up treasuring that little card—much like the pieces of work we put out into the world.
And hey, next time you’re stuck staring at that blank page or feeling overwhelmed by what’s “professional,” grab a cup of coffee, take your time, and remember the heart behind it. Because at the end of the day, it’s all about sharing our story, one grain at a time.
