Little Wooden Objects and The Source Of Love

My Mother tells a story of when she and my Dad were first married.  While looking for a job, he was browsing through the want ads and found one that seemed promising.  He cut the ad out and handed it to her to read.  She read it, re-read it, then looked at him questioningly.  “Why would you want this job,” she asked him.

On the backside of the ad, the one he had actually wanted her to read, was another job posting, “Need someone to make little wooden objects.”  To this day, we wonder who answered that ad, who fit the qualifications and what kinds of little wooden objects they were making.  Have I ever seen these little wooden objects in a shop somewhere and wanted to buy them?

You can see we have spent a lot of time pondering this almost insignificant event in my parent’s history.  Insignificant except for the part where I married the man who makes little wooden objects.  I didn’t know it consciously when I walked down the aisle but it has become more and more apparent over the years.

There had been hints while we were dating.  In a box of mementos that he showed me once, there was a flute he had carved out of bamboo.  I also should have had a clue when he chose to bring home a chunk of wood, not for burning, but to practice chainsaw carving.  We have a half carved bear in the garage that he is determined he will finish one day.

The children have had various wooden carved artworks on their walls since birth.  From trees to princesses, there has been an evolution of wall art rotating through their rooms.  They take it for granted that periodically things come down off the walls and are replaced with something new.  It is no longer exciting for them.  This is just their life.

The most startling, to date, manifestation of my husband and his little wooden objects was this past weekend when I walked into the garage to find him in his protective eyewear, hand saw buzzing, on top of an old, beaten sixteen foot canoe, cutting it in half.  When he finally looked up to find me staring at him wide eyed he shrugged his shoulders at me and said, “these are the bookcases I was telling you about.”  So, apparently I will now be the proud owner of canoe bookcases in my bedroom.  No, Mother, your husband did not make little wooden objects, mine does.