The Joys and Trials of John Farrar Woodworking
You know, there’s something about the smell of fresh-cut wood that just feels like home. I was sitting in my garage last week, sipping on a cup of black coffee—probably a little too strong, just the way I like it—when a memory came back to me about one of my earlier projects. If I start telling you about it, you might just find a chuckle or two in there, and maybe we can learn a thing or two together.
It was, let’s see, a couple of years back. I had this grand idea of building a rustic coffee table for the living room. I mean, it’s where all the good conversations take place, right? So I wanted it to be something special. I’d gotten my hands on some beautiful oak, and trust me, the rich color and grain just jumped out at me from the lumber yard.
Now, I’ve dabbled in woodworking for years—thanks to my dad, who had all the tools laid out like he was ready for battle. I grew up listening to the hum of the saws and the clink of the hammer hitting nails. But I’ll confess—while I thought I had a good grip on it, there was a learning curve that hit me square in the face. Mainly because I didn’t measure twice, like I’d been told a thousand times.
It was one of those early fall weekends, the air had that crisp bite that signals the end of summer. My first mistake? I was in a rush. I mean, heck, I had finally gotten some time to myself, and sure enough, I started throwing the pieces together like it was a jigsaw puzzle. I grabbed my trusty miter saw—well, pretty trusty until this point—and went to town. I sliced off a couple of boards for the legs, and boom! I thought I was on a roll.
But as I laid it all out, I realized the legs—oh boy—were too short. I mean, really short. I could almost laugh at how ridiculous that looked, like a table for a dollhouse. It was at that moment I almost gave up. I stood there scratching my head, questioning my entire woodworking existence. “What am I even doing?” I muttered.
But you know, there’s this stubborn part of me that just wouldn’t let it go. After grabbing a snack and pacing a bit, I decided to rethink the idea. Instead of the standard square legs, I remembered something I’d seen at a woodworking show years ago—a friend had made some tapered legs that looked sleek and elegant. “Alright, that’s it,” I thought. I figured it couldn’t be much worse than what I had already done.
So I grabbed my chisels and set to work. Unlike my earlier rush with the miter saw, I took my time and managed to get those cuts just right. The sound of the chisel gliding through the wood was oddly satisfying—almost like a song I had played a million times but always managed to get lost in.
As I sanded the edges smooth, that wood dust wafted around me, filling the garage with that intoxicating smell. It’s funny how a scent can trigger memories. I thought back to afternoons spent in my dad’s workshop, the two of us making everything from toy boxes to birdhouses. He always had some old vinyl playing softly in the background, and now, I swear I could hear it faintly again.
With the legs finally looking proper, I pushed on to the tabletop. I decided to go with a laminated design—stacking thinner boards to create a thicker, chunkier look. And here’s another lesson I learned, one I wish someone had told me before: not all wood glues are created equal. I was using some cheap stuff I had lying around, and let me tell you—it was more like a suggestion than a real adhesive. When I went to flip the tabletop, I could feel it start to pull apart like a discount sandwich from a gas station.
Let’s just say the sound of disappointment in that moment could’ve echoed through the neighborhood. I almost laughed, had it not stung so much. But instead of tossing everything out the garage door, I sat down and drank some water while staring at that mess. I realized that it was just a small bump in the road. The beauty of building things with your hands is that you get to make choices, right? Plus, I had more wood and a bit of patience left in me.
So, I went back to the store and picked up some of that fancy Titebond III. Now, that stuff is like magic. I let it cure, kept my fingers crossed, and was treated to the beautiful sound of success once I finally brought it all together. I couldn’t believe it when the table stood up strong. I mean, it actually worked! In that moment, it felt like I had created something worthwhile.
When I finally dragged that coffee table into the living room, I’ll be honest—it was a proud moment. We piled books, coffee cups, and cozy blankets on top, and countless memories have built themselves around that table since then. We’ve had friends over, family game nights, and just good heart-to-hearts—and each scratch and stain tells a story all its own.
So, if you’re thinking about tackling something similar, don’t overthink it. Just go for it. You’ll mess up; you’ll question everything at times, but you just might end up creating something beautiful. It’s all about the journey, right? Life and woodworking—both have their twists and turns, and sometimes, those little hiccups are what make things all the more meaningful.
