Finding Peace in Wood
So, I was sitting in my favorite chair, cup of black coffee in hand, the kind that could probably strip paint if you left it out too long. I’d just been thinking back to that summer when I decided to tackle something that felt way bigger than my skillset: a memorial bench for my dad.
You see, my dad was a woodworker too, though he never really called himself that. He’d just whip up projects in the garage, more out of necessity than ambition, you know? I swear, he could’ve built a spaceship if he’d had the right blueprints and a few spare weekends. Anyway, after he passed, I felt this pull to carry on some part of that. It seemed fitting, really, to try and channel him through something I couldn’t just buy off the shelf.
I remember standing in front of the local lumber yard one blistering afternoon, the air thick with that sweet scent of pine and cedar. It was like I could smell potential—seriously, it was intoxicating. I finally settled on some lovely oak; the guy there said it was “hard as a rock” and “perfect for outdoor projects.”
Fast-forward a few days, and I was elbow-deep in sawdust. I remember the sound of the table saw humming away like a small jet engine in my garage. I should mention, by the way, that my last “big” project had ended in a literal pile of kindling. So, yeah, this was a leap of faith for me.
Lessons in Patience
Now, where was I? Oh right—the design. I thought, “Hey, how hard can a simple bench be?” Famous last words, right? I sketched it out on scrap paper, nothing too ornate—just a nice, sturdy seat with some armrests. But as soon as I cut the first joints, panic set in. I mean, I yanked the tape measure from my pocket about twenty times and still got my 45-degree angles all wrong. At one point, I even shouted a couple of words I won’t repeat here, mostly aimed at myself.
Let me tell ya, there’s something humbling about standing over a piece of wood that just won’t fit. With each failed joint, I could almost hear Dad chuckling at me. I fought off the urge to just storm back to the woodshop and grab a giant piece of plywood and call it a day. But I didn’t give up, even when I almost tossed the whole project out the window. Slowly, painfully, I learned that patience is key.
The Shape of Nostalgia
After I finally got the frame together—or at least a version of it that looked somewhat decent—I moved on to the seat. I chose wider slats of that lovely oak. You know, that rich, almost buttery color that reminds you of lazy summer afternoons? I thought about all the moments Dad and I spent sitting outside, catching up over a couple of cold drinks, and I hoped this bench could carry a bit of that warmth.
Now, as I sanded those slats, the smell of the wood slowly filled up the garage, reminding me of Saturday afternoons spent in silence, just him and his tools. I know that sounds cheesy, but I wasn’t ready for how emotional it’d all hit me. I almost choked up, right there with my orbital sander buzzing in my hand; the sound echoed like an old memory.
And then came the finish—oh boy. I went for a natural oil because I wanted to keep that color intact. I thought, “Hey, I’m not too far along to mess this up!” But, wouldn’t you know it? I applied too much on one side. I panicked, and not-so-gracefully rubbed it down with a cloth—too late. It was streaky, and my brain started going down its well-trodden path of self-doubt.
But then, a funny thing happened. I stepped back, grabbed that cup of coffee, and when I looked again, I kind of loved it. Those imperfections, those little streaks? They told a story. They told my story.
The Unveiling
Finally, the day came when I set that bench out in the backyard, under the old oak tree—that’s where we used to sit together. I was nervous. I could already hear my own heartbeat in my ears. I almost didn’t want to sit on it, like I was afraid it wouldn’t hold me or something. But I did, and for a moment, it felt like he was right there next to me, chatting about the weather, or maybe which type of wood was the best for a kitchen table.
You know, it might sound silly, but I almost think the bench—those little flaws, character marks, whatever you want to call ‘em—made it feel like he was part of it too. Like, his hands were in the grain somehow, passing on that effortless love of creating. I laughed as if he was in on the joke, the unexpected success of something that almost never made it off the ground.
Wrapping It Up
So, if you’re ever in the position to take on a project for someone you’ve loved and lost, just go for it. Seriously. Don’t get caught in your head about how it should be perfect or how you might mess it up. There’s something therapeutic in the struggle, in the mistakes. Each little misstep teaches you something about yourself, and it helps keep the memory of that person alive.
So, grab a cup of coffee, some tools, maybe even a couple of pieces of wood, and just start. The process, the smell of the shavings, the sounds of the tools—it’s not just about the end product; it’s about the journey and the memories you find along the way. If I could do it, believe me, anyone can.
