Crafting with Richard Wiborg: A Journey Through Wood and Mistakes
You know, sometimes I think back to that day last summer when I sat outside in my backyard, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, staring at that lonely pile of wood I had bought from Richard Wiborg. Just to back it up a bit, Richard’s a local woodworker up in the next town, and let me tell you, the man could turn anything into a work of art. He’s got this old barn with creaky floors filled with all sorts of projects in various states of completion. You walk in, and it feels like stepping into a woodworker’s wonderland. The smell of freshly cut lumber, that mingling scent of pine and cedar, it just grabs you. You can hear tools humming softly, like they’re tuned to some secret melody only Richard knows.
But that day, my coffee wasn’t making me feel better, just a bit anxious. I had set my mind on making a really nice Adirondack chair. You know, the one that just screams summer backyard lounging? Richard had assured me, like he always does, that it was a simple enough project. “Just follow the plans,” he had said with that reassuring twinkle in his eye. But “simple” is such a relative term when you’re standing in front of a pile of lumber, staring at the instructions like they’re in ancient runes.
The Big Mistake
So, there I was, all excited and ready to get started. I had picked up a nice piece of cedar—smelled amazing by the way, and my goodness, the color was just beautiful. I could picture the finished chair already, maybe even a good book in my hand, sunshine streaming down. But you know how it is; you get so excited, you skip some parts of the process. I thought, “Oh, I’ll just eyeball it. How hard can it be, right?”
The first big mistake came early on. I didn’t measure twice—nope, not even once. I grabbed my trusty miter saw, a DeWalt I’d had for years, and before I knew it, I was cutting pieces that were far too short. I remember the sound of the blade whirring—it had this kind of comforting rhythm until I realized I had just butchered the first couple of boards. I could almost hear Richard’s voice in my head: “Measure, measure, measure!”—the guy loves to repeat that like it’s some sacred mantra.
Lessons from the Sawdust
After a good hour of sulking and trying to figure out how I could salvage the remnants of those boards, I finally accepted I didn’t have a choice. I piled up my mistakes and decided to make a bird feeder instead. Out of a lumber graveyard, I hoped to create something that might at least get me some good karma—or some pretty birds, anyway.
After trimming down the remnants, I thought, “Hey, at least I’m learning.” But when you’ve been all excited about building a chair, transitioning to a bird feeder just kinda deflates you. It was a wild mix of cedar and pine scraps, and I even threw in some old railing I had lying around, which was pretty rustic. I had the taste of defeat creeping up on me, but the smell of fresh wood kept urging me on.
Unexpected Joys
Fast forward, I finally threw together this makeshift bird feeder, and you know what? I laughed when it actually worked! It was so simple. Just a couple of screws here and there, some wood glue for good measure, and suddenly I had something that resembled a bird feeder. I hung that thing up, and within a day, I saw a pair of chickadees flitting about. If I hadn’t had the blunder with the chair, I might have never made that bird feeder.
Funny how those unexpected turns can sometimes lead to something really nice. Every morning, I’d sit on my porch with that cup of coffee, watching the birds go crazy over the feeder I’d cobbled together, and I couldn’t help but think about Richard. I remembered the way he takes pride in his work, and I felt a bit of that pride myself.
Back to the Chair
Eventually, I returned to that Adirondack chair project, but this time with some good ol’ humility. I made a mental note—that measuring mantra was taped to my brain. This time, I treated the whole process like it was a long, slow dance instead of a sprint. I took my time with the cuts, the sanding—my god, the sanding. I learned a thing or two about patience and how satisfying it is when you actually hear that smooth glide of sandpaper over wood. It’s almost a kind of meditation.
When the chair finally came together, it was like a mini celebration at the end of a long journey. I felt all those previous mistakes fade, and in their place, there was this beautiful structure that my body had made. I stained it with this rich teak oil, the scent wrapping around me like a warm hug, and then, there it was—my little piece of backyard paradise.
Final Thoughts
So listen, if you’re thinking about picking up a project—whether it’s woodworking or really anything in life—just trust the process. You’ll mess up; I certainly did, and oh boy, I’ve got the stories to prove it. But take those stumbles as lessons. You might find that in the end, a simple bird feeder can remind you of the joy in progress. Richard always said the best part of woodworking isn’t the finished piece but the journey to get there. And honestly, that couldn’t be more true.
So, go for it. Dive in and get your hands dirty, and who knows? You might just surprise yourself.
