Coffee and Carpentry: My Journey with “Tage Frid Teaches Woodworking, Book 1: Joinery”
You know, it’s funny how life has a way of throwing curveballs just when you think you’ve got it all figured out. I remember the first time I picked up “Tage Frid Teaches Woodworking, Book 1: Joinery.” I was sitting at my kitchen table, sun spilling through the window, a steaming cup of black coffee beside me, and this little spark of excitement in my gut.
Now, I’d dabbled in woodworking here and there. I inherited an old miter saw from my Uncle Ralph that rattled and groaned every time I switched it on, like it had something to say about my craftsmanship. And let me tell you, the first few projects? Well, let’s just say I’m pretty sure that a couple of the shelves I built could’ve doubled as an abstract art installation. But, I was ready to level up, and there it was, that book, calling my name.
The First Make-or-Break
So, in my naïve enthusiasm, I decided to jump right into the joinery section. Frid’s explanations seemed straightforward enough, with crisp drawings and a voice that felt almost like he was sitting with me, sipping coffee while he guided me. I can still hear his words, “Joinery is the soul of woodworking,” as I imagined making something beautiful and functional.
I thought, “How hard could it be?” I mean, joinery is just fitting two pieces of wood together, right? Armed with a few two-by-fours from the local hardware store—pine for the price and smell—and a basic set of chisels that I thought would suffice, I set out to make a simple frame.
But, you know how it goes. I was so eager to dive into it that I didn’t take the time to really understand the tools or the wood. I mean, have you ever smelled freshly cut pine? It’s like a sweet hug, but add in some shavings from a chisel, the sharp tang of the wood dust in your nose, and it almost feels like magic—until it doesn’t.
The Teeth-Clenching Moment
It all went south during my first mortise-and-tenon joint. I could blame the cheap wood clamps I picked up, but the truth is, I rushed in like a kid on Christmas morning. I cut the tenon and felt a wave of pride wash over me. It fit snugly, but when I went to cut the mortise, I was doubting my angles. I remember shaking my head as I pushed the chisel down; I felt like I was wrestling a greased pig. I was about to give up when I noticed something simple: I hadn’t lined up my measurements. Cue the eye roll.
I paused, took a deep breath, and reminded myself that I wasn’t building a spaceship. I grabbed my square—not the fancy one, just the standard metal one that came from my father’s toolbox—and realigned everything. Suddenly, cutting that mortise felt like riding a bike again.
And wouldn’t you know, when that beautiful piece of wood locked together, I laughed with surprise. It was like magic! The snug fit, those clean lines—it was a small victory, but one that made me remember why I got into this in the first place.
The Joy of Mess-Up
Now, a few weeks later, I was feeling cocky. After that first build, I decided to up the ante and take on a little side table. I got some oak from the lumber yard—good stuff. It smelled so different from the pine, richer. I could almost taste the sweetness of summer.
This time, I thought I’d go all out and experiment with a dovetail joint. Lordy, it was like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube—backward. I grabbed my dovetail saw, and honestly, it was a bit of a disaster. I got one cut slightly too deep, another slightly too shallow. I was sitting there listening to my neighbor mow his lawn, and I contemplated throwing it all away. I almost did, but the idea of having to go explain that to my wife stopped me.
Instead, I got the book back out, took a moment to really focus on Frid’s diagrams. You know what I learned? Dovetails are about patience. They’re not just about fit; they’re about balance, about having that gentle touch. So, I switched gears, slowed down, and tried again.
And let me tell you, that last joint fit so perfectly that I almost shed a tear. As I sanded it, I could hear the smooth, soft sound of the paper gliding over that oak. It felt rewarding—like I really earned it.
Lessons on Lumber and Life
At the end of the day, those projects didn’t always turn out perfect, but they were mine. I learned a few things; I found my favorite tools and wood types, and I built a bond—no pun intended—with the process. Mistakes? Yeah, plenty. But with each error, I found more personality in the work.
Just the other day, I was finishing up that little side table, and my toddler came in, grabbed a piece of wood shavings off the floor, and asked, “Daddy, can I help?” That’ll knock the wind right out of you; I can tell you that much.
I’ve come to understand that woodworking, much like life itself, isn’t about the perfect cut or seeing the final piece the way you envisioned it. It’s the moments of doubt, the laughter when something actually comes together, and sometimes even the sweet smell of that fresh cut wood that makes it all worthwhile.
If you’ve thought about diving into woodworking or even if you’re just curious, don’t overthink it—just go for it. Get your hands into it, embrace the mess, and find joy in each step, no matter how crooked it might seem. I sure wish someone had told me that sooner.
