From the Bench: Tools from My Father
One son’s reflection on cleaning out his father’s woodshop.
By the time I took my first suitcase of tools back home to Toronto from my parents’ house in Newfoundland, Dad hadn’t been in his workshop in any meaningful way for three years. It wasn’t the basement shop where I cut my teeth, but a cramped, downsized version in the downsized home they had bought as empty nesters. The house was a fixer upper, which suited Dad to a T. He had finished the renovations just as the crippling pain took hold.
A disused workshop is a sad sight. During those three unproductive years, his shop had become an ad-hoc storage room covered in dust rather than sawdust. Since we had never worked shoulder-to-shoulder there, it didn’t feel like his shop to me.
Sorting through his tools while he languished in his chair upstairs, I kept a practical distance to my decisions. Was it worth taking up valuable suitcase real estate with the biscuit joiner? (Yes.) His Mastercraft bench chisels? (They’ll do for now.) His router? (Guess I don’t need two.)
I allowed myself just a couple of compact sentimental selections: a small plane with a curved blade set in a wooden handle that fits nicely in the palm for easing edges, and a Stanley nail set at least 30 years old, though the exact model can still be found at any box store for under $10. I chose them because when I hold them, I can immediately picture his hands.
Back in Toronto I sharpened the bench chisels and put them to work on my first furniture commission, an outdoor dining set in quartersawn white oak. The joinery—drawbored mortise-and- tenons, bridle joints, and even a couple of dovetails—was beyond anything my father had taught me. On the phone I told him how well his old chisels had performed after a good sharpening and explained the techniques I was learning.
Our teacher-student relationship was being turned on its head. If Dad was able, he would have puttered off to the workshop after our long-distance chats to try things for himself. On trips home I could have shown him firsthand; we could have made something together like old times.
A month or so after he died, Mom and I were talking by phone. I was a few months from moving to the West Coast with my wife, adding a few thousand more miles between us. Mom was on a mission to ship dad’s tools to me, and our move was complicating things. But that day I could hear relief in her voice. You’d be amazed how cheaply you can ship a ton of tools 5,000 miles with a little patience and the determination of a retiree.
A couple of months later I was back in dad’s small workshop, dismantling his Craftsman radial-arm saw for shipping. Practicality was out the window by now. This was the first machine dad taught me to use, and it was coming with me.
That was almost two years ago. Dad’s machinery waits in storage for a permanent home, but his smaller tools have found use in my shared, city shop here in Vancouver. I have a son of my own now. He’ll never know his grandfather, but at least I’ll teach him on the same tools my father used to teach me.
From Fine Woodworking #275
Comments
I am that grandfather now. I have restored and used many old tools old friends have given to me when they downsized or moved to retirement communities, one saw from as far back as the 18th century, many from the middle to late 19th century. I can now make and use the most precise jigs. Lately, to create frames from quartesawn white oak for my many new landscape photographs. I often wonder who will use my tools next. Having five sons however, It'll be anyone's guess.
A very touching story, and one that I can relate to. I lost my father a couple of years ago and, like you, was tasked with the cleaning of the dilapidated shop where I learned woodworking. This was not an easy task, with many tears shed as I sent much of his equipment to the dumpster. The leaky roof, in combination with his inability to move about, left most pieces beyond repair. I'm sorry, dad.
Fast forward to today. My 21 year old son, an engineering student, has found a love for woodworking just as I did. He also has more talent in his little finger than I have in my entire body. It helps that, over the years, he and I have put together a shop that would make Norm Abram proud.
I continue to follow my woodworking passion, with both of my sons occasionally jumping in to help. I am proud to say that they will both be able to assemble wood shops based on what I have accumulated. Just not sure who will claim the wide belt sander. LOL. Good luck to you with your move and your future. FWIW.......I miss my dad every day.
A great and touching story...I lost my dad 39 years ago and just cleaned out his shop...I found things that I had forgotten he had. My shop is eight times the size of his shop, yet he made such wonderful items, repairs and helped so many in that shop! Thanks for sharing!
Oh how that hit me. Thank you for sharing that story!! To think he never met his grandfather but because of those tools he will be introduced to him. How heartwarming!!!
Such a fine story and close to my heart as well. After dad shipped all his stuff to me in the early 80's, Indiana to Washington State, they've been a blessing and a reminder of his skills, although mom was always worried they'd be a burden to me. Now retired, I'm teaching woodworking through a local folk school and hoping to inspire another generation.
Thanks for sharing your stories ( original article and comments). This brings back floods of memories: My Dad was unable to spend time in his shop for his last several years. He taught me tons of shop things ( wood working, metal working, thinking, problem solving) that I still use today. His last project was within a couple of weeks of being flight ready ( a home built Long Easy). I remember him every time I pick up one of his tools. I also have a couple of tools from Dad's father, they are really special too.
Fabulous story, thanks! Our tools become a little part of us and its natural what will happen to them upon our passing. My son and two of my grandsons have spent a little shop time with me, but not enough to form a well developed bond over the tools. I've accumulated tools over a lifetime, but only after retirement have had time to put them to much use. In recent years I've added a few new machines and fancy shmansy planes and chisels. I love using them daily, but they'll have been barely broken in when I'm done with them. My shop is larger than my son's little house and my grandkids are a long way from owning a house. Likely my horde will end up in an estate sale and some klutz like me will get a great deal. At Fine Woodworking Live I really enjoyed two presentations. One on per-industrial woodworking the the other on the North Bennett Street School. I was struck by the different role that woodworking plays in today's society. The workmanship of the students was spectacular (far better than mine). I wonder what role our community could take in channeling tools effectively into the hands of real, developing craftspeople? I've considered donating to a makers' space, or a school, but it's the individual, talented person who might be able to make a meaningful career in Fine Woodworking who would be impacted the most. But like my grandkids he or she might not have room for the big stuff. After my loved ones claim a memento or two, whose life will be changed greatly by the rest?
Echoing the other comments, that is a great story that also touched me. My father wasn't a woodworker per se but he had a bunch of tools in his shop, some of which found their way into mine. One of those was an old 1/4" Fury drill, with an all aluminum housing, that I really had no practical use for so I decided to repurpose it. After thinking about it for a while I decided to transform it into a light fixture for our living room. When my grandchildren come over to our house for a visit they love to pull the trigger and press the lock button down to brighten up the room.
How fast you go from the child to the adult. Seems like yesterday when we were first married and I was buying tools to fix up the house and "make" furniture for our home. I watch our children doing what I did and now I am the one with the dusty rusty tools. Love this story!!!
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