This is a Krenov-inspired chest on stand I built mostly out of offcuts I purchased at Weiss Hardwoods in Largo, Florida. I wanted the base to have a little movement and grace, so I cut the rails and stretchers with a curve in them. Both the front and back curves have identical arcs – as do the two sides.

The chest is made of maple and is dovetailed with my Keller Journeyman jig. I was able to use variable spacing by following the simple instructions Dave Keller wrote up in the manual.

The top rails of the doors echo the identical arcs in the aprons and rails, and the panels are veneered sapele wood I got from Veneer Supplies dot com.

The write up I put on Marc’s blog goes into great detail about the construction. But, what I loved most about this project was the number of firsts. My first veneered project (Loved it). My first attempt at a Krenov Cabinet. My first variably spaced dovetails.

The Fujiwhara Chest was recently dropped off at the county’s personnel office – the coordinating office for the annual art show sponsored by the National Arts Program. I will find out at a reception late on October 1 how the piece fared. With any luck, the judges might see some merit in honoring the piece.

Just as an FYI – I have also put the piece up for sale for $1,000. I’ll be donating a portion of the proceeds to my county’s Christmas Bikes program which allows employees to contribute to purchase bikes for underprivelidged kids.

You wanna brew up an instant argument? Find a group of woodworkers and ask them their opinions about brands of pick up trucks.

For the record, I drive a Toyota Corolla. I chose this car because it gets me from point A to point B with a modicum of comfort while using as little gas as possible. It has a reputation for reliability. The fact that it also happens to be able to hold my entire family is a bonus. Other than that, I really couldn’t care what make the car is.

But, when you drag Ford, Chevy, Dodge, Nissan, Toyota and other manufacturers into the mix, people become defensive about their trucks. Boastful. Arrogant. “My Ford will tow your Chevy to the junk yard when it dies.” “My Dodge is a beast and will out perform both of your toy trucks.” This conversation can drag on for hours while people go back and forth essentially over what is a utility vehicle designed to carry a load of items.

In much the same way, woodworkers have a tendency to look at their workbenches and compare how they stack up to others. Whether a woodworker believes a huge steamed beech bench modeled after some European standard is the only way or a solid door on sawhorses is their preference, a great deal of personality is invested in the decision.

I have been looking at my workbench recently. Sure, Big Ugly still answers the call without a whine or whimper each time I go into the shop. She serves me well. But, I’m thinking it might be time to do some upgrading. Some extra features. A little more heft.

That’s where I’m getting stuck.

At the recommendation of many woodworkers, I recently picked up Workbenches, the first book written by Popular Woodworking Editor Chris Schwarz. The book has been touted as a seminal work, required reading for woodworkers of all levels of experience.

I’ve got to hand it to him. I think Chris has written a very well researched book on the topic of workbenches. Besides old photos of woodworkers actually using their benches from bygone ages, his book is replete with drawings, block prints and ads from tool and bench manufacturers from years gone by. This really helped me get an idea of just how these specialized shop tools has evolved from the first flat rock to today’s high-tech offerings.

Chris offers outstanding plans with measured drawings and step-by-step instructions in exacting detail. Chapters devoted to stock selection, bench accessories and the best methods to accomplish certain tasks make this book an invaluable reference for any shop. It’s written in a style where – yes – I didn’t want to put it down.

But, I do have a quibble with the author on a few points.

No doubt Chris is imminently more qualified than I to write about all things woodworking. He’s worked with the best. He’s held some of the most expensive tools ever manufactured in his own hands. He’s perched in an enviable position from where he can monitor the latest developments in the craft. When he speaks, his voice carries with it a great deal of authority.

For some reason, his book hit me the wrong way. Chris makes excellent points about the shortcomings of many bench designs. He validly points out that many benches today are glorified kitchen counters – with no access to clamp materials from below – or overgrown dining room tables. However, the way he belabors the point seemed to set uneasily with me.

He speaks about other designs – some of which he designed for Popular Woodworking – as if they are somehow beneath a serious woodworker. “Build it like that, and you’ll be terribly disappointed,” is a common refrain. Perfectly serviceable benches such as the 24 hour bench and the $175 bench are dismissed as ’starter’ benches, perfect for customizing as you would an old Volkswagen Beetle.

What iced me from the book was when he pointed out the shortcomings of the benches found in the shops of Tage Frid, James Krenov and Frank Klausz. There is no question that these men have built incredible works of craft – and art – from their modest benches. While maybe not the ‘perfect’ forms, the quality these men have produced speaks volumes for their ability to use these benches effectively.

And, that’s without saying a word about the Japanese masters such as Toshio Odate who create their masterworks without even touching a western-style bench.

Chris describes his first exposure to the French-inspired Roubo workbench as a near religious experience – divine inspiration into the perfect form and function of what a bench could become. In some ways, I wish he would position himself as less of a Zealot when considering bench forms. Unfortunately, there will be many starting woodworkers who will walk away from this book thinking that any workbench – other than those recommended by Chris – would be a waste of time. Indeed, I can see many up-and-coming woodworkers stymied by the impression that they MUST build a Roubo before they dare touch a tool.

Listen; there are dozens – closer to hundreds – of published plans out there to help you build a workbench. From ultra-quick, ultra-cheap weekend benches knocked out a few 2×4’s and some plywood all the way to the could-double-as-an-altar-in-some-minor-woodworking-religion uber-benches – there’s something out there for everyone.

Before you go out and build your bench – consider doing what I’m doing. Look at plans. Lots of ‘em. Ask yourself some questions. What am I going to use this bench for? What’s my budget? What skill level do I have? How much space is there in my shop?

Sure, you can’t plan for any eventuality. I could hit the lottery next week, quit my day job and woodwork full time. Of course, my kids could need glasses, braces and piano lessons too…

What kind of bench you work on is a personal decision you will have to make. Ask around. Take all of this input with a grain of salt, understanding that everyone will offer his or her opinion based on what works for them.

Then, go boldly, build your bench – and get back to the fun stuff – woodworking!

In many ways, I see myself as a little bit of that adventurer/archaeologist when I start hunting down old hand tools. (OK, it’s my childhood fantasy to run around exotic marketplaces with a bull whip and a brown crusher on my head. There. What’s it to you?)

Instead of running away from evil Nazi agents, I can be found some Saturdays walking around the long-running flea market a few miles from my home. My wife hates going there, but I get a kick out of looking at the old tools hand tools for sale. Some are in pretty tough shape, while others look like they have never seen a square foot of wood in their lives. Some have reasonable prices on them, while others… well… you have to wonder why a nasty looking chunk of rust with a rotten handle can cost more than a plane you can buy new from a woodworking store…

I’ve bought lots of old tools – especially hand planes – at that flea market and in the other big virtual flea market out there – eBay. Since I have told my family about my interest in old tools, I’ve been getting them by the bushel. Old hand planes, spoke shaves, auger bits – it’s a bonanza of old iron that shows up at my door – whenever someone needs something built!

Before you decide to take the plunge, it pays to become familiar with what hand planes are all about. You can check out an excellent primer at Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hand_plane), or, what I would recommend would be to get to a library and check out Garret Hack’s The Handplane Book. These are both great places to look for the basics.

Once you get the old tools, you really want to put them to use as soon as possible. While you could take a rusty old hulk and try to work with it, it pays to do a few things first.

1. Before you buy – or after you receive one as a gift – check the plane out thoroughly. Look for broken totes and knobs (you can buy or make replacements), cracked iron, warps and twists, missing pieces, etc. I’ve received some planes that look like they were used for target practice – needless to say, those babies are probably not going to get put back into service. I typically put the broken planes up on a shelf in my garage for decoration and as sources of spare parts.

2. Once you decide you want to rehab the plane, take the entire thing apart. Remove the handles, cap iron, frog, everything. I usually start with wiping everything down with a rag sprayed with some WD-40 and a blast of compressed air for the nooks and crannies. For screws, use an old toothbrush to get the crud out of the teeth.

3. Some folks become crazy about getting rid of rust. I’ve seen people sandblast their planes, submit them to electrolysis and a bunch of other methods to strip off a layer of rust. For me, I’ve found 400 grit wet/dry paper with a blast of the aforementioned WD-40 can clean up the pieces very nicely.
4. Assemble the tote, knob and frog into the plane body, but hold off on the blade and chip breaker. I usually stick a piece of 320 grit wet/dry paper down to my table saw, lubricate with the WD-40 and rub the sole of the plane until its clean. You’d be surprised how much bright red rust comes off the sole of some of these babies! Keep wiping the crud out of the paper so you can eventually flatten the sole of the plane.

5. And, when it comes to flattening plane soles, don’t make yourself batty about it. An easy way to ensure the sole is flat is to draw a squiggly line with a permanent marker across the sole. Rub the plane on the sandpaper a dozen strokes, then lift the plane up and look at it. Where is the marker still on the sole? You want to make sure the front and the area around the mouth are nice and flat, so rub the plane until those areas are without marker.

6. Once you have everything nice and shiny, look at the plane iron. Sharpen and hone that sucker. If you can swing it, look to get a replacement plane iron. There are some killer replacement plane irons out there for $25 – $40 from Lee Valley, Lie-Nielsen, Hock tools and others.

7. Assemble the entire plane and give it a good wipe down with some furniture paste wax. That keeps rust at bay and allows the plane to glide nicely across the board.

8. USE THAT PLANE! Give your jointer, planer or random-orbit sander a rest and develop the skills necessary to dress, joint and smooth wood the old fashioned way.

You may never give up your power tools, but you will gain valuable insight into how wood works, and just how fortunate you are to have those modern shop tools. Now, there’s something to discover all on your own.

If that’s the case, then I’m really scratching my head as to why I got into woodworking as a hobby.

Let’s hit the rewind button on the way back machine. The year, 1982. There I was, a skinny kid growing up in Bloomingdale, New Jersey. I was in seventh grade at Walter T. Bergen Middle School. The big time. You see, in sixth grade, things were just like they were in elementary school – you stayed in your classroom most of the day, leaving only for phys ed, art, music and lunch.

But, seventh graders actually got to change classes. This was my first experience going to a math teacher’s room. A history teacher’s room. A science teacher’s room. It was totally new, and a lot more fun than sitting in the same classroom all day.

Another very important thing happened to me – all seventh graders got to do a semester in wood shop class. Woah. Power tools. Visions of being the best in this class danced in my head.

Unfortunately, I had to get through a semester of Home Economics in the fall first. The food part wasn’t that bad, but the sewing was a nightmare. I ended up making a pair of sweatpants that had no business being worn in public.

But, as the spring semester began, we were off to wood shop. Mr. Kirkegard was a very patient man, and, judging from his looks, he was probably big into the counter-culture movement of the late 1960’s or early 1970’s. Far out, man.

We spent the first few weeks learning how to draft. While I was trying to align a T-Square and a drafting triangle with a sheet of paper, my eyes kept wandering to the big gray Delta Unisaw and the bank of power tools against the wall. Oh, yeah, I was going to DIG cutting wood!

How disappointed I was to discover how tight the restrictions were for the tools. No table saw. The band saw and drill press were to be used under tight supervision. And, even the power disc/belt sander was monitored carefully. Bummer.

I think those first few weeks of actually working wood were to get an idea of who knew what and who was not going to be trustworthy near the tools. My suspicions were confirmed when we were allowed to pick our assignments.

Some of the brightest and the best were allowed to build turned salt and pepper shakers. Most of the kids were allowed to build cutting boards in various shapes. (We were told we could make cutting boards in the shape of a hand with a finger extended – but only ONE particular finger was forbidden, if you catch my drift.)

Me, well, I was assigned a coat hanger. A poplar board cut – say – 18″ by 6″, with three 3/4″ holes bored into it. Then, I was given three lengths of 1″ dowel and a stack of sandpaper, and told to sand the dowels down until they fit the holes.

I must have REALLY impressed him….

So, while the other kids in class were building their creations, I sat at my work table and sanded the ends of three dowels for weeks. It was tedious and my hand hurt, but I was going to make those dowels fit come heck or high water.

Well, the big day arrived. Mr. Kirkegard came over to me with a bottle of glue and a mallet. “So, Tom, you ready to assemble your project?”

Uhh, the other kids were busy finishing theirs, so I guess it must have been time. I nodded my assent, then handed over the components. He smeared glue on the sanded end and tried to fit it into the hole. It was a tight fit. He pounded on the dowel with his mallet. He was getting frustrated, and I think I heard him muttering something under his breath while he worked. It finally surrendered and went into the hole.

The same thing happened with dowel two. However, while he was driving dowel number three home, the poplar board split down the middle. Mr. Kirkegard stood over the piece for a second, looking down with hatred in his eyes. As if on cue, dowels number two and one took that opportunity to tip over out of the now too-large holes, roll off the bench and clatter to the floor, trailing wood glue in their wake.

Stoically, Mr, Kirkegard picked up the board, retrieved the wayward dowels, and stepped into his office. The door shut with a resounding thud and the bell rang shortly after.

At the end of the semester, I opened my report card to see I had gotten a C in shop class. I’m not sure what ever happened to the project, but, if you go to the Passaic County, New Jersey landfill and dig back through 26 years of refuse, I’ll bet you’ll find an unautographed Tom Iovino original piece of art.

Ahh, who can forget the heady days of late 1999? The dire predictions of mass hysteria as computer systems crashed around the world. Cults foreseeing the end of civilization and the beginning of the ‘end times.’ Economists hedging their bets on an economic collapse the world hadn’t seen since the Great Depression.

Imagine everyone’s relief when January 1, 2000 rolled around and the world didn’t go into the tank.

If you think the people in the late 1990’s were the first to make predictions of what the new millennium was going to look like, you’d be wrong. People have always looked ahead, based on their observations, and tried to foresee just what the future would be like.

I recently came across a .PDF of an article written in a 1950 edition of Popular Mechanics called Miracles You Will See in the Next 50 Years. Wow. This was some real Buck Rodgers kinda stuff. Rocket planes that scoot people across country in less that two hours. Shopping by video phone. Solar energy providing cheap, reliable electricity. A veritable bonanza of clean, efficient life in a technological wonderland…

Who am I kidding? The description of life in the year 2000 sounded soulless, sterile and – in many ways – frightening. Here are some of the predictions that made me stop and say, “huh?”

• Cooking as an art is only a memory in the minds of old people. A few die-hards still broil a chicken or roast a leg of lamb, but the experts have developed ways of deep-freezing partially baked cuts of meat.
• There are no dish-washing machines, for example, because dishes are thrown away after they have been used once, or rather put into a sink where they are dissolved by superheated water.
• Discarded paper table ‘linen’ and rayon underwear are bought by chemical factories to be converted into candy. Yuck.

Doesn’t sound like a place where anything is too terribly permanent or personal. That carries through to the home and furniture as well:

• Though (the house) is galeproof and weathterproof, it is built to last only about 25 years. Nobody in 2000 sees any sense in building a house that will last a century.

Later in the article, we see a cheery Mrs. Dobson hosing out the inside of her home – furniture included -to get that nasty dirt and ground-in grime out. The water and detergent disappear into the main central drain, a blast of hot air dries everything and the home is once again sparkling new.

Of course, none of these predictions have come to pass. However, in the 1950’s, we were sure that science would solve all of our problems. Plastics, mass production and advances in technology were supposed to eliminate all of the toil and hard work from our daily lives.

If that’s the case, why did woodworking survive, and why is it a thriving hobby for hundreds of thousands?

It turns out that we can find a historical analog. In the late 1800’s, the Industrial Revolution was changing the landscape everywhere. Mass production of everything was becoming the norm, and that included furniture. Factories could spit out ornate spindles and table legs at alarmingly fast rates, catering to the Victorian fashion sense of the day. Layers of ornamentation could hide shoddy or underbuilt joinery.

But, there were those who didn’t want to go along with the mechanized flow. In England and the United States, such notables as William Morris, Gustav Stickley and Edwin Lutyens were driving furniture design into a more craft, hand made aesthetic. Even though they used machinery for some tasks, the furniture spoke boldly to strong lines and the skill of the craftsman. Frilly ornamentation was abandoned nearly altogether in the Arts and Crafts movement, with the new style playing on exposed joinery as a design element.

These pioneers saw a different future than was being offered, and, today, their work is prized for its clean lines and bold showcasing of structure.

In the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, there was a similar renaissance in woodworking. The counter culture movement was rejecting all things technological, and some very creative minds, such as Sam Maloof, James Krenov, Tage Frid , George Nakashima, Wharton Esherick and Art Carpenter came into their own. Magazines such as Fine Woodworking encouraged the average homeowner to try his or her hand in this time-honored craft.

This handbuilt school of design brought with it increased innovation to allow the inexperienced craftsperson to build custom furniture. David Keller perfecting the first through dovetail jig. Delta pushing innovation in table saws. The adaptation of new industrial joinery technology into the home workshop with such items as the biscuit jointer, pocket hole jigs and the Domino.

Not all of these innovations had shown themselves in high-tech tools. Companies such as Stanley and Record, who used to make the hand tools craftsmen relied on, were replaced by forward-thinking outfits such as Veritas and Lie Nielsen. The hand tools built there are, in many cases, an evolutionary leap above the old styles, and will serve their owners for generations to come.

This new rise of woodworking timed perfectly with the advent of the Internet. Today, many techniques, tools and materials are just a click away, and dozens of lively woodworking forums allow a free exchange of information to even the most far-away places.

So, technology has definitely provided a miracle of some sorts, even if it wasn’t exactly as envisioned back in the 1950.

All woodworking is a matter of scale. Some woodworkers build in huge dimensions – ­ entire libraries of bookshelves, complete room paneling systems and kitchens full of cabinets. Others work on the small side ­ – boxes, clocks and other small items such as toys.

While working large has its challenges, the small scale stuff can be even more intimidating. After all, it’s highly unlikely that someone will pick up a bookshelf and turn it in their hands, examining every small detail. In this small scale realm, one woodworker has made a name ­ and reputation ­for himself.

Doug Stowe, a woodworker from Eureka Springs, Arkansas, is widely known for his books and magazine articles on building awe-inspiring boxes from what many cabinetmakers would call scrap.

Doug has his father to thank for his woodworking roots. “My earliest remembrance of my father is being instructed by him how to hold a hammer and how to avoid hitting my thumbs.” While young Doug was honing his skills, his father recognized the potential he saw, and presented Doug with a Shopsmith for his 14th birthday. “The Shopsmith and I are both 1948 vintage,” said Doug, “and still going strong.”

The second part of his career ­ – the writing of woodworking books and magazine articles – ­ took a little more time to perfect. “I had studied creative writing in college and got some encouragement to go on with it. But I knew very little of enough interest for me to write about. Then I read James Krenov’s Cabinet Maker’s Notebook and realized that there was a lot more to say about woodworking than how to cut wood. So, I knew early what I wanted to write about, but also knew the depth of experience necessary to have anything meaningful to say. My first writing for magazines came at the invitation of Woodworker’s Journal in 1994, and my first book about boxes came in 1997.”

Doug has built a number of outstanding larger pieces, but his work with the smaller boxes is his calling card. His boxes are seen universally as creative, innovative and drop-dead gorgeous. While these masterpieces may seem beyond the abilities of an average home woodworker, they can serve as an excellent starting point for acquiring new skills and breaking out from beyond the norm. “Making boxes takes so little material, and so little space compared with larger work. You can learn so much from them. Nearly every technique associated with larger work can be learned through making boxes. You can more easily take risks in design making a box, so you get to be more experimental. When you make a box, you don’t have to think of the whole room setting the piece will compliment or dominate.”

While his boxes are striking and dramatic, his preference for materials actually brings his interest closer to home. “I have a very strong preference for using Arkansas hardwoods. I seldom find Arkansas woods with very dramatic figure like you may find in exotic woods, but that is not a problem. Nearly every piece of wood is suitable for box making. If you have plain wood, you have to apply more craftsmanship to come up with something striking. And what’s wrong with that?”

Given the small scale of these boxes and the outstanding results Doug demonstrates in his writing, woodworkers might stumble a while before they truly master the projects. “We all make mistakes, and we get better at things through practice. If your toddler takes his or her first three steps and then falls, you celebrate the steps, not the fall. Your toddler gets right back up and goes again. When we make a box, we know the first won’t be the best, but each will bring new skill. Don’t worry about your finished product. Learn something from each one and celebrate the steps.”

Besides the immense satisfaction Doug takes from building these boxes and teaching the craft to thousands through his writing, he also sees the big picture ­ what people will take from these pieces years down the road. “We each can leave an important legacy in the things we make that tell more clearly than our words about caring for each other and for the planet. In the meantime, we become more potent, more creative, and more alive when we are engaged in making things from wood.”

To read more about Doug’s thoughts on woodworking, visit his Wisdom of the Hands blog.

But, when people want to have fun and strike up a conversation, they turn to the bartender. Think Isaac on the Love Boat. Tom Cruise in that stinkin’ movie about being a bartender.

“Yes, Mr. Bond would like his martini shaken, not stirred, Mr. Sinatra wants a highball, and Evel Knievel wants two fingers of Wild Turkey before he tries to jump the fountain in the parking lot on his Harley.”

While no one may be hanging out in your wood shop, you can be just as cool by mixing your own wiping finish. Why mix your own? Instead of just relying on what a manufacturer thinks is the best mix, you can adjust your formula to fit your own needs – faster drying time, more film build, etc. Also, if you have cans and bottles of the components, you can use them in your finish instead of throwing them out.

Mixing your own finish is very easy. There are dozens of formulas out there to suit individual needs, but this is my formula I have used very successfully through the years.

The ingredients can be found in any hardware store and start with boiled linseed oil (BLO). This natural oil helps the figure in wood ‘pop’ and gives it a rich, deep finish. The next ingredient is polyurethane or some other type of varnish. It offers a great deal of protection from water, abrasion and other hazards. Finally, you have to add a thinner to the mix. I like turpentine, but paint thinner or naptha will work as well. It makes the finish flow nicely and level without brush marks and runs.

Now, here comes the hard part – mixing it together. The ’standard’ mix that a lot of people refer to is 1/3 varnish, 1/3 BLO, 1/3 thinner. While this does make a nice mix, I have found that I can mix it 1/2 varnish, 1/4 BLO and 1/4 thinner. It gives me a little faster build on the finish while still making for an easy wipe on.

My scientific method for mixing involves an old pickle jar. I measured up from the bottom in one inch increments, and poured the ingredients up to the lines. No, you are not trying to send people to the Moon or split the atom, close enough will work…

After sanding the piece, I again prefer to wipe on a coat of 1# cut dewaxed shellac and sand it down to 400 grit after letting it cure. Then, I wipe on the finish with a rag. Don’t be bashful, the wood will soak up a lot of the finish – especially in end grain. Let it sit for about five minutes, then wipe off any excess with a dry cloth.

I love how easy the mix is to use, and I have yet to be let down.

Now, after all that hard work, I think I’ll take one of those fancy martinis to celebrate.

A man is not complete until he is married. Then, he’s finished.

I remember chuckling when I first heard that, and the hurt look on my wife’s face when I told her for the first time. That one took a lot of flowers and a homemade dinner to make up for.

For years, when I first started woodworking, I had a similar expression I used to tell everyone:
Finishing is the easiest way to ruin a perfectly good woodworking project.

I hated finishing a piece. It never failed – I had my finishing regimen, and it was always a disaster.

First, I would sand the piece. I don’t like to sand, and all I owned was a ¼ sheet finishing sander. Do you know how long it takes to sand saw marks out of a piece of wood with one of those? I’m asking because I just don’t know – I would always stop sanding WAY before the surface was smooth. I’d run the sander, step back (eyes watering from sawdust) and say, “OK, that’s enough for me.”

Then, I would stain my project. Since my first pieces were made of the cheapest wood I could buy, that meant pine. No. 2 common from the local home center. And, if you have ever tried to stain pine, you know that you should expect the worst. The blotching was incredible.

Impatient, I would never wait the recommended time for the stain to dry. I would pick up the can of brush-on poly and proceed to slop the stuff on with the first brush I could find that wasn’t totally clotted up with old, dry paint.

Needless to say, the pieces were always a disaster. Machining marks, blotchy stain and sags and runs in the finish were always hallmarks of my pieces. Oh, and the finish was very rough to the touch, what with all the dust in the film. It was pretty nasty.

After ruining several projects, I just had to find a new way to do things. After reading some great books – notably Bob Flexner’s Understanding Wood Finishes – and posting lots of questions on woodworking message boards, I was turned on to a method I use with great success. Maryland box maker Dave Knipfer calls it the Rude and Crude method of finishing, and I’ve found that there’s a lot of sound wisdom in giving it a shot.

First, I’ve really done away with staining. When I need a piece of wood to look like cherry – I go and get cherry. The range of colors in domestic and exotic hardwoods – and softwoods, for that matter – is very impressive. I’ve found it easier – and gives a better result – if you let the wood’s natural color come through.

The next thing I did was improve my sanding technique. Now, I’ll use a smoothing plane and scrapers to do the bulk of the work, and I will use sandpaper wrapped around formed bocks to reach into molding profiles. My Porter Cable random orbit sander does occasionally make an appearance, but the sweet action of planes and scrapers eliminates the drudgery of sanding.

The next thing I do is to use Zinnser Seal Coat as a sanding sealer. It’s a 2# cut of clear, dewaxed shellac, and I usually cut it half and half with denatured alcohol to ensure a very light coat. I’ll blow off any dust on the piece and then use a rag to wipe the shellac on. Don’t be bashful, use a lot of it!

Once it’s all covered, then you set the project aside for the shellac to dry. Give this process at least two hours for the shellac to really get set – overnight is preferable.

This next step may seem kind of counter-intuitive, but bear with me. You want to use a fine grit sandpaper (320 or higher), #0000 steel wool or a fine plastic abrasive pad, and rub the shellac finish. You want to sand that surface for a good long time. Dave says to rub until your arm is about to fall off – if your sanding arm hurts after a few minutes, you are doing a good job!

What you are doing is removing all of the shellac from the surface, leaving only the stuff down in the pores. Remember the blotchy pine problem? Leaving this shellac seal coat in the pores will eliminate it once and for all.

After what seems like an eternity, you’ll have a very smooth, begging to be touched surface on your project.At this point, I blow the dust off of the piece and get ready for the final step.

I have given up on brushes. Period. My new motto is, “If I can’t wipe it on, I don’t use it.” Wipe on polyurethane, varnish, Danish oils or similar finishes go on beautifully in very thin, even coats. You would have to try really hard to leave a wipe mark, sag or other imperfection in the surface if you use these products. The finish goes on very smooth over the prepared surface, and I set the piece aside to dry. Later, I will put on additional coats of the finish, following the manufacturer’s directions.

What do my projects look like now? The wood absolutely glows under a picture perfect finish. People who look at my stuff want to see it first, and then they want to touch it.

It’s a finish fit for a king.

Here King!

In football, as in all professional sports, you start to notice that there is a sort of unwritten rule that most players follow. For example, in an after game press conference, you might see one team’s star running back or linebacker who had a career day tell the reporters, “We played a hard game against a tough team. The win was great, but there are some things we have got to work on to improve our game.” It always amazes me that you’ll hear this coming from the mouths of players or coaches – even after an impressive win. Don’t they know they just crushed the opposing team? Why doesn’t anyone ever admit to playing a perfect game?

Many woodworkers do the same thing with their projects.

I’ve done it. You’ve done it. We all have done it. Here’s an example that happens to me. After three or four months of planning, picking out lumber, cutting precision joints and buffing the final finish to a lustrous shine, my wife walks into the shop.

“Oh, my goodness!” she says. “That is one impressive piece!”

“Well, honey, let me point out all of the goof ups I made. Look at this miter that didn’t close all the way, and this rail that I misglued and had to live with and this glue smudge under the finish and…”

Soon, I find myself on my hands and knees pointing out a drop of dried glue under the bottom shelf that only the dust bunnies will ever see. That’s when my wife will say something like, “Well, I think this is a very nice piece,” turn around and go back into the house as I frantically search for more major snafus lurking in my work.

Why on Earth do we do this to ourselves? Do we gain some type of masochistic joy in beating ourselves up over the slightest goof?

If you worked in an office where your boss came in after every project – even projects that win universal acclaim – and verbally flogged you for the smallest mistake, like not formatting the page footer exactly as she would have, would you stay at that job? After a while, most folks would hit the bricks, and anyone who stayed would be hard pressed to find any joy in coming to work.

Then why would you do that to yourself? Remember, in this case, you have to live with your boss every stinkin’ day.

To help regain my sanity – if I had any to start with – I had to create a new process when it came time to show my work to someone. Even though I have a list of the boo boos in my head, I’ll invite my wife into the shop and have her take a look at the finished project. I have to FORCE myself to be quiet while she takes in the piece. When she gets close to where the foul up is, I have to fight the urge to blurt out what she should be looking for as she runs her hand over the finished wood. Sometimes, I have to grab the vise handle and squeeze it while she picks up the smaller pieces and gives them a thorough once over. I sweat as she opens the doors and drawers, wondering if they are going to fall off the hinges or runners.

“I like it. Good job” Then, she leaves the shop.

I exhale hard. The tension drains. Maybe my mistakes REALLY aren’t as bad as I thought they were at first. Maybe you really do need an electron microscope to see that not-too-gappy joint that looks as big as the Grand Canyon in my eyes.

That’s when I start doing my end zone touchdown dance!

=========================

For more posts like this, visit http://tomsworkbench.com