Late Nights and Splintered Wood: My Woodworking Journey in Toronto
You know, I’ve never really considered myself a craftsman. I mean, I can whip up a decent meal or fix a leaky faucet, but woodworking? That felt like a whole new ballgame. But here I am, sitting in my little garage in Toronto, sipping on my lukewarm coffee, thinking about how I picked up this hobby on a whim, mostly out of boredom and a need for a project.
When the pandemic hit, time seemed to stand still. I was sitting around, scrolling through endless videos, and I stumbled across some guys in their workshops creating the most astonishing pieces of furniture from almost nothing. Like, one guy turned an old piece of plywood into a stunning coffee table, and I thought, "Heck, I can do that." Spoiler alert: it wasn’t as easy as it looked.
Humble Beginnings
I remember walking into a local store—Day and Night Woodworking, I think it was—and feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. The smell of fresh pine hit me first, like a warm welcome. You know that earthy, aromatic scent? It’s intoxicating, really. I wandered around, trying to look like I belonged there, picking out some cedar that made me feel fancy. They had all sorts of wood, from oak to walnut, and I was just a kid in a candy store, dropping cash on beautiful planks. I thought I was about to kick-start my woodworking empire.
I grabbed a few basic tools too: a circular saw, some clamps, and, of course, a tape measure. Don’t forget the tape measure—seriously, nothing will deflate your confidence faster than realizing your board is a good inch too short after you’ve cut into it. I learned that lesson the hard way. More than once.
Ah, the Mistakes
Now, to be clear, my first project was supposed to be a simple shelving unit. Something for the basement to organize the clutter. You’d think that would be easy enough, right? Well, the first time I got to cutting, big ol’ mistakes were waiting to greet me. I remember flicking on that saw—the buzzing sound fills you with this rush—but something in my gut twisted. The way the blade whipped through that wood felt both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
I measured everything twice (thank you, YouTube), but somehow, I managed to screw up the dimensions. I ended up with shelves that were all different heights. It was like a modern art installation gone wrong. I almost gave up right then. I stood there, staring blankly at the mess I’d created, thinking, “What am I doing?”
But then I took a step back, took a breath, and just laughed. I mean, what else could I do? My mess was too bizarre not to find it funny. I soldiered on, tried to even things out with a bit of sanding, which, believe me, was a ton of work. I recall the dusty scent filling the garage, and my arms felt like lead. I probably sweated off a few pounds in that tiny space.
The Triumphs
But you know what? It actually worked out in the end! Well, kinda. I put the wonky shelves up, painted them a bright blue, and actually grew to love the look of them. They’re character-filled, as I like to tell people. A bit of whimsy, if you will. Friends walk in, and instead of criticism, they comment on how “unique” they are. Unique, that’s one way to put it.
You see, there’s something remarkably freeing about declaring that you’re a “woodworker” even with all your blunders tangled up in there. It’s like keeping the cheerleaders and the benchwarmers on the same team. Every piece I’ve attempted since then has come complete with its pitfalls. I crafted a cutting board that looked perfectly fine after the first round of sanding. But then, as I stained it with some food-safe oil, I found an ugly knot that glared back at me like a red flag. Naturally, I almost gave up again, but I smoothed it down and went for the rustic look.
The kids love that board now. They use it for everything, and I get to play the role of the proud parent while quietly cringing inside. “Look, I built that!” I say, as it holds up their peanut butter sandwiches. And yes, the same imperfections that once made me cringe are now the ones that endear my creations to everyone else.
Reflection
I guess the key takeaway here is that each splinter, every crooked cut, somehow adds to the beauty of whatever you create. As I sit here finishing the last of my coffee, I realize how those late nights filled with the whirring of power tools and the scent of wood have shaped me. Each project has become an event, filled with memories—sometimes frustrating, sometimes downright hilarious.
If you’ve been thinking about diving into woodworking or any hobby for that matter, just go for it! Don’t let the worried voice in your head keep you from trying. I wish someone had told me that earlier. We’re all just figuring it out as we go along, one lopsided shelf at a time. And trust me, there’s a joy that comes from creating something with your hands—even if it’s a bit rough around the edges. At the end of the day, it’s all about the stories behind the wood. Happy building!
