My Woodworking Life, A Mystical Journey (eBook)

Chapter Two

(1975-1976)

First Year of Woodworking School, University of Southern Colorado

I applied to three potential colleges with woodworking programs, one in the northern foothills in the city of Boulder, one deeper in the Rockies named Colorado State and the third in the southern city of Pueblo. It was the middle of August, and I was overly anxious to hit the road. In my haste, or possibly my age, it didn’t occur to me that I had not received acceptance to any of these colleges. In my presumption I moved ahead, packing up my car with all that I owned or needed, which was not much. The colonial dining trestle table found its next home in my parents’ kitchen.

This trip across the heartland of America was the first of eight, each one an adventure to be cherished. Not only did I see the contours of the land change from the rolling hills of Kentucky to the immense stretches of flat farm land, but I also briefly stopped at small communities along the way, seeing a different way of life. After two days I crossed the eastern border of Colorado. Having driven for so long I needed to stop and get out to stretch my legs, and when I did, I saw the end of the earth looming in all four directions. Getting thirsty for new life, I continued until, to my amazement, something magical began to happen. It was like a mirage; directly in front of me, growing out of the prairie was the first peak of the Rocky Mountains, Pikes Peak. As if in slow motion the mountain grew backwards, starting from the rocky top, descending to the forest, becoming one with the foothills, then joining the prairie which I was a part of. Then a second magical sensation happened, this one affecting my sense of smell. Cow manure, mountains of it, seemed to rise out of the west, then the shorter cows, thousands of them. As I got closer to Denver the Rocky Mountain range was in full sight. Then, a third amazing occurrence happened. You can imagine the smile on my face and the possible tears running down my cheeks as John Denver’s most famous song came on the radio: “Rocky Mountain High.”

There was no reason to stop driving, so I just climbed in elevation, into the foothills and further westward to the first college on my list. Upon arriving at the campus, I walked briskly as if my feet were above the ground (maybe it was the light air) to the admissions office and inquired into my acceptance to the university. The woman behind the glass hesitated slightly and then replied, “You’re not.” I was shocked. I turned and ran, looking for the nearest phone booth to call the second school on my list. What was I thinking (or not)? Here I am in the middle of nowhere, not accepted after driving thousands of miles. Now I was anxious and nervous as I dialed the number to the second college on my list. It was somewhere south, hundreds of miles for all I knew. A woman’s voice answered my call and I timidly asked her, “Could you please tell me if I have been accepted to your University?”

She politely answered, “We don’t give that information over the phone, we’ve already sent you a letter.”

I hesitated, cold sweat on my neck, and replied, “Please.”

She said, “Let me see what I can do for you, Cowboy,” then left me hanging. By the time she returned, the phone booth I was standing in was all fogged up. “Are you from the city of Boston?” she asked. “You sound like a Kennedy.”

“Yes, and some people say I smile like one also,” I replied.

“Well,” She said, “in that case you’re accepted, and classes begin in five days. We’ll be waiting for ya, honey.”

Well, I was elated. What a wonderful turn of events! I had a few days to kill, so after looking at the map I decided to head to Rocky Mountain National Park. Because it was early September the summer tourist families had gone home, leaving the park pretty much empty. I had the majestic park to myself.

After getting settled at a campsite, it was time for a hike. I climbed as high as my lungs would allow, probably 12,000 feet. It’s amazing getting used to the altitude. The hike ended at a relatively level area. There were few people on the trail that day. I stood there alone, gazing off into the remarkable distance at jagged peaks. What I did see, though, were animals that are only found above the tundra line in the Rockies. One was a groundhog-looking creature called a “marmot,” and the other was a tiny little creature called the “pika.” The pika looks like a mouse with tiny round ears that is somehow related to the bear family. Not that the pika scared me, but I started to think of grizzly bears off in the distance and decided it was time to head back down.

The following evening after a roaring campfire, listening to the howls of either wolves or coyotes, I took a walk. The evening was totally foggy, no stars, very little light, the pine trees were only silhouettes with shaded detail. As I was walking along the paved road I started to hear a low thunderous roar. As the noise grew louder the road seemed to shake. Suddenly to my right a herd of elk came crashing across the road right in front of me like ghosts in the fog. If I had left my campfire a minute or two earlier, I would have been surrounded by the herd.

My days alone high in the Rockies came to an end. Now it was off to school, heading south out of Denver on Highway 25, through Colorado Springs with Pikes Peak to my right, then into the valley of the prairie called Pueblo.

Classes began. They were split evenly between sitting behind a desk, taking notes, and getting to work in the shop. A door separated the two rooms. Whatever information that came from the books was immediately transferred to our hands, a concept that was right up my alley. At first, we built small items completely by hand, using the adjustable square, hand saws and planes, chisels and the mallet. Information flowed quickly from the desk to the bench. Within weeks we were on to the machinery.

There are periods of time in our lives that in retrospect we consider some of the best years of our life. My two years of woodworking classes, plus life in Colorado and traveling by car eight times across the country, was such a time for me. The woodworking program was everything I could ever hope for. It seemed that for the first time in my educational life I was not only enjoying my work but totally immersed in it. It was a bottomless pit of information and I wanted to learn it all. Even my reading habits and learning abilities drastically improved because of my interest. What is more important, the subject or your interest and desire? Of course, our teachers and how they affect our learning habits are just as important. Most teachers are deserving of our respect, and occasionally we will be introduced to that one special teacher who will go above and beyond in influencing our life.

There was an occasion in the shop in which I was about to cut a cumbersome size of plywood on the table saw. The plywood was also a little warped, which adds to thedifficulty and danger. The problem is that if the plywood binds between the fence and the saw blade it can pivot, raise up on the blade and be thrown with great force directly back, hitting you usually waist-high or lower. In all my years I have seen this happen in nearly every shop, to anyone, experienced or not. I was feeling a little unassured about cutting this piece of plywood, so I asked my instructor if he could give me a hand, which he did. To my surprise, with the board halfway through the cut, he let go and walked away. Afterwards I asked him why he let go. He said, “Peter, I know you can do anything on your own.” His words have stayed with me not only in getting the work done but also in doing so safely.

My furniture project of the semester was a dining room buffet made of solid elm. At the time I knew very little of the varieties of wood, so my choice of elm was totally by chance, which turned out to be a good way to learn. You’re not going to find furniture made of elm mainly because the grain can reverse direction causing tension in the wood and leading to twisting and warping. Try splitting a log of elm for firewood; it’s next to impossible. The wood is beautiful, though; a goldish color with silvery streaks. The construction of the buffet was basically flat stock glued together as opposed to rail and style construction with a center panel, again leading to more of a chance of the two doors or panels twisting out of shape. At the end of the semester I brought the buffet home for my folks. I noticed how the color of the finish changed due to the climate changing from dry to humid. It’s still in the family today, but the doors are slightly twisted.

When the first semester ended I took my first drive home, stopping at night either to camp or sleep in the car if it was raining. I had about one month of free time in between semesters, but minus driving days I was left with about three weeks. During some free time, I made a trip to Boston mainly to visit the Public Library, where I was sure to find more unusual books on woodworking, particularly wood turning. I was not disappointed. This is not your typical public library. Our town’s libraries always have more up-to-date books and magazines. What I did find, to my amazement, were books of the late 1800s, not American but English, old world as opposed to...