A Post Just About Woodworking and Definitely Not About Anything Else

I have a small woodworking project I'm working on. It's the kind of thing that you can buy for a reasonable price and it'll be perfectly functional and attractive, but I've been very up front with this audience about my stubbornness in doing some things myself. At any rate, this is a good project for me and it will have a lot of sentimental value if I make it instead of buying it. But that project is not what this post is about. 

We're at my parents' house this week, so I had to bring my workshop with me. For my project, I brought two boxes full of all-analog woodworking tools: dovetail saws, crosscut saw, tenon saw, bench chisels, mortise chisels, hand planes, marking gauges, dividers, the works. I figured I would find somewhere to set up a temporary workshop. Turns out my dad was telling their across-the-pasture neighbor that I was going to try to do this in their carport, and the neighbor extended the offer to use his workshop. It was a generous and helpful offer so I accepted. It happens to be extra special because the neighbor's house used to be my maternal grandparents' house, and the workshop is the very workshop where I spent many a childhood hour marveling at Papaw's skills as a woodworker, and where I learned my first lessons in the craft.

Even better still, this workshop has an actual cabinetry workbench. Now when I say "workbench," I don't just mean a table in the garage you don't mind scratching and banging on. In woodworking, a workbench must be sturdy, flat, level, and most importantly, it must have some method of holding the work firmly in place. There are several different ways of securing your work: bench hooks, holdfasts, crochets, battens, etc. But the most common work-holding apparatus you'll find in workshops worldwide is the vise. This workbench has what's called a "tail vise," which moves in and out at the end of the bench by turning a large threaded rod.

Let me take a moment here and acknowledge that I'm aware most of the eyes reading this are glazing over. If you're not into this, re-read the title of this post and you'll find that I'm as good as my word. But this stuff really is fascinating for a certain type of mind, and if you're one of the people who isn't bored by halfway-competent prose about old timey trades, you absolutely should read this book. I'm well aware that the woodworking minutiae is me really letting myself lean into the early-forties dad vibe and I've accepted it. Moving on.

The workbench available to me was most likely purchased as a kit and assembled on site. It's mass produced, but sturdy and flat. It wasn't made to be pretty, and the wood it was made from was cheap and functional finger-jointed stock. They sell similar benches at Harbor Freight and Northern Tool and the like. It's nothing flashy, and there are thousands upon thousands of nearly identical workbenches in garages of weekend wood warriors across the country. But it is sturdy, it is flat, it is level, and it has a mechanism to hold the work securely. 

I brought some oak stock that I'm using for this project, and it actually was harvested from the big water oak that used to stand about 75 yards to the north of this workshop. That's not really pertinent to the post, but it is pretty neat. So I got some of that oak out and went to clamp the first board in the vise, itching to get my hand planes singing away on it. I turned the handle, tightening up the vise screw, and "CRACK!" 

The benchtop's tail apron (the piece to which the tail vise is anchored) suddenly and catastrophically failed. 

Nobody would have ever noticed before it broke, but one of the tail vise's anchoring screws just happened to be positioned right in the middle of the lumber's glued finger joints. In retrospect, it makes sense why it broke, but jeez, what are the odds of the screw going right through there. It's frustrating, especially when you've got big plans for getting some good work done on this project. For every one of these benches where the glue joint lines up just so with a screw hole, there are probably 200 where it's not a problem. Oh well, luck of the draw I guess. Though if I were standing in front of the manufacturer I would definitely complain about the quality control.

So there I was with a table. But I need more than a table, I need a workbench. This table was sturdy, flat, and level. But there was nothing there to grab hold of the workpieces. Nothing to keep the work secure and steady. A vise without something to anchor to can only hold one side of the work. Without a way to hold everything firmly and steadily, this was just a table.

But this project is important, and it's not one I'm willing to outsource. So I assessed my resources, and formed a plan. I did not have the type of wood I would prefer for this fix, so I used a scrap piece of construction lumber. I didn't have the right size drill bits for the threaded rod or the alignment pins, but I had a wide variety of other tools and some resourcefulness. I didn't have enough time to be dealing with this particular problem, but I have a project that needs to get done and I couldn't start working on it until I cobbled together a fix to get to the next step. 

I used the broken piece as my guide, reverse-engineering how it was attached and how it worked to anchor the vise. I measured out the dimensions onto my scrap lumber and got to sawing, drilling, chiseling, squinting, test fitting, etc. And eventually, something functional emerged:

It wasn't (and isn't) pretty. It was an awkward fit because it wasn't the exact same dimensions as the original tail apron. It wasn't even the same species of wood as the rest of the bench. But I reinforced it as well as I knew how. I put decking screws in it everywhere I could possibly fit one. It was time to put a little force on it and see how it held up. If I'm being completely honest, I'm surprised at how well it worked. I still had to do a lot of resetting and fiddling, but eventually I got it to where it seemed to be holding the workpiece pretty well. And I finally got into a rhythm and by golly I made one flat piece of oak by the end of the day. This project is going to get finished.

Granted, this was not a high-end fix, and if this bench is to get used heavily in the future, it's likely a more elegant repair will be needed. But it's functional for now, and for the near future I think it's gonna hold.

We Want More

One of the things I've heard often in the past week is that the world didn't get enough Chrissy. Preachin' to the choir, buddy, trust me. 

Well, it just so happens I have come up with a way to do just that. No, it doesn't involve a pet sematary or any other such necromancy. Here's what I mean: I've had numerous times in the past week that I've heard a story about Chrissy that was brand new to me. And each time, it felt like I was getting a little bit more of her. Getting to see her again from a slightly different angle. Getting to know her a little bit more fully. It's been such a gift. A fella could be forgiven for wanting to experience more of that. 

So that's tonight's ask: if you've got a Chrissy story and you think I might not have heard it, please send it to me. That's it. I promise I won't publish any of them without getting your consent first. This is a public blog, so I'm not going to blast out my personal email address to the universe, but if you knew Chrissy, you probably know how to get in touch with me, or you know someone who does. I will probably be sharing a few of my own Chrissy stories; a lot of those are just for us, but I've already thought of a couple that I can share without feeling like I'm betraying any of her confidences. They're adorable; you're gonna love them. And, in a way, we're gonna get a precious little bit more Chrissy.

Thanks, y'all. 

-R

tip jar

"Do It Yourself" Can Wait

It is a humbling experience to be overwhelmed by offers of help. It is more humbling still to realize that you need overwhelming help. I like being self-sufficient, maybe to a fault (Chrissy would absolutely agree with this statement). I'm the guy you see in the parking lot at the home improvement store trying to lift multiple sheets of plywood and absolutely refusing to accept help from the store employee offering it. I always took it as a personal insult if we ended up hiring someone to fix something around the house that I thought I could take care of myself. Sometimes this character trait pays off, and we get a beautifully redone screen porch. But it also means that I have items on my household fix-it list that predate my youngest daughter. 

All that to say, as hard as it is for me to ask for help or even to accept help freely offered, our family could not have made it to this point without the support of so many of you. The one phrase I have heard probably more than any other in the past month is "If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know." Every single person who has expressed this to me has meant it from the bottom of their heart, and every single one of you has made me feel so loved, encouraged, and supported. 

Over the past week, it has become clear that the best and most useful way to help, should you feel led to do so, is to navigate to the GoFundMe page that my sister, Liz, set up for us. Setting up a donation page was something I hadn't even considered before Liz asked my blessing to start one, but since donations started rolling in I have realized just how valuable this specific type of help is for our family as we pick up the pieces of our lives.

If you feel so led to help, it would mean the world to us. Each donation we've received isn't just money, it's time. Time to spend with my girls to help them through the worst thing that will ever happen to them. Time to sit in peace with them without being preoccupied with our sudden new financial situation. Time to sit with my thoughts and feelings and grief. Time to write, which has been and will continue to be therapeutic as I try to make sense out of a universe that no longer includes Chrissy. 

Look, this is PEAK make-Robert-feel-uncomfortable stuff right here, because not only is it asking for help, but it's asking for the most generic, un-specialized type of help. My knee-jerk instinct is that, if I'm going to accept help, I should be asking each individual for something special that they are uniquely capable of providing. We have so many people in our lives who have incredible, unique talents and skills; surely each person has something amazing they want to do for us!

But folks, I am still learning from Chrissy. As I made the drive last night to my parents' home in Georgia, I thought back on all the times I've watched Chrissy command armies of volunteers. I can't tell you how many times I've witnessed her direct a room full of people with post-graduate degrees to do the most mundane, generic tasks possible. You've got a PHD? Go through these tubs of markers and throw out the ones that have dried out. You run a multi-million dollar business? Put two of each color pipe cleaner in each of these 40 ziplock bags. I've seen her do it a hundred times. And here's what Chrissy's been teaching me through these memories: when people who love you tell you they want to help, they ain't lying. Nobody ever got upset at Chrissy asking them to do mundane, impersonal things. They were happy to do it. They volunteered to do it. Get over yourself, Robert, and take the help people keep asking to give you.

Thank you all so much. I can't say it enough: I wish everyone, everywhere was blessed with the Village that we have. And even though letting so many people do so many things for me makes a part of me want to curl up into a tiny ball of infinitely dense mass, there's a bigger part of me that just marvels at the ever-repeating miracle of people caring for us. Thank you.

Here's the link:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-for-robert-clara-and-eloise-hardy

WWCD

"What would Chrissy do?" has become a very useful focusing tool for me. For any number of unfamiliar situations I have found myself in this week, this tool has helped me center myself, halt the spiral, and take perspective. 

It's been helpful when there have been hard choices to make. It's been helpful when I have needed to find a solution to complex logistical problems. And, in between the chaos and slogging through the lists of very-much-not-fun tasks that have to be completed, it's been helpful when there are quiet moments.

Today has been a day of crossing off lists, hurried packing, and travel. It has been a hell of a week. The adrenaline and cortisol have finally eased the throttle down to only about 75%. I am wounded. I am raw. I am weary. 

WWCD? 

Well, first of all, on a week like this one, she would still write. But it would be a short post. 

She would express gratitude for all the acts of love and grace we experienced this week. 

And she would wander out in the pasture, braving mudholes, chiggers and fire ants, to get a good photo of tonight's incredible sunset.

And then she would close her laptop and enjoy the quiet.

Check, check, check, and check. 

I'm the Captain Now

There's this very small, quirky cruise ship. It's a small scale business, nothing super flashy. It only has 4 crew members: two full-fledged officers, and two bright young cadets. One crew member serves as captain, navigator, events coordinator, and also takes care of about 75% of the galley duties. The first mate is in charge of maintenance, engineering, waste handling, and also runs the ship's comedy club. Both have very weirdly specific job descriptions, but they built these roles around a long-running partnership and somehow it works pretty well. This little venture is modest, but sustainable and even thriving. Again, nothing flashy, nothing grandiose, but the ship is sea-worthy and storm-tested, and it is chugging along, right on course and right on time. The captain is imminently capable, and her record aboard this ship is unblemished and admirable. The first mate is a resourceful and talented problem-solver, and his levity and adaptability have proven invaluable for this crew when navigating rough waters. The two are excellent foils for each other, each serving to complement the other while managing to balance out each other's particular excesses. The partnership is a triumph of luck. Their puzzle pieces fit just right. The little ship chugs along, day after day, month after month, year after year, right on course.

But one day, in the middle of a cloudless day, on calm seas, a rogue wave materializes out of nowhere. Before anyone has time to brace themselves, the wave strikes and the captain-navigator-activities-director-cook is swept from the deck and lost at sea. 

Just as quick as that. She's Gone. 

The rest of the crew pick themselves up off the dripping deck, stunned. The first-mate-engineer-janitor-clown scans the water all around in a frantic attempt to locate the captain. Maybe she's not lost. Maybe she was able to grab a life ring on her way over. Maybe if he looks hard enough he'll see the smoky trail of a flare gun. 

But there's nothing. This captain, the one he has crewed alongside for all these years to get this beautiful little ship from harbor to harbor, voyage after voyage, is nowhere to be found. The sea has taken her. 

The first mate assesses the situation. The cadets are both present and accounted for. This is good. He quickly grabs emergency blankets and scoops them up and gets them inside where they can rest against the bulkhead. Alarm klaxons are sounding. The vessel is listing somewhat. This is concerning. The hull could be compromised. The engines are definitely not at full power. He can tell the originally plotted course is no longer possible, not with this damage. This is not good.

It's at this moment the realization hits him so hard he almost loses his sea legs for a moment.

He's been promoted. 

He steadies himself against the railing and takes several deep breaths. He somehow manages to avoid vomiting. 

He takes another deep, deep breath, holds it. He stands, willing his legs to stop quivering. He stands for a moment, thinking. He nods, lets out his breath in a heavy but determined sigh, sets his jaw, and steps into the wheelhouse. 

He goes down the captain's duty list. He's watched the captain steer for years, and even spent some time at the helm a few times (but mostly just when the captain was needed elsewhere onboard and the charted course was well-mapped and clear). It's been years since he worked regularly in a galley, but he's no slouch. He sees the captain's sextant resting on top of the maps. He makes a mental note to write a joke for the ship's comedy night about how funny the word "sextant" is, but has no clue how to use it.

Another deep breath. He takes stock of his resources. He has the two cadets. They are inexperienced and scared but ready for duty. They have also been watching the captain. The senior cadet has already run to the galley and started pulling recipes. This is a good sign. He steps back out on the deck and cranes his neck upwards to glimpse the radio antenna, and sees it's untouched. This is good; he can radio nearby ships for help. He checks the distress beacon and confirms it has been activated. Before he can even reach for it, the radio receiver crackles. It's another ship reaching out. They have already picked up the beacon. Then another crackle, another nearby vessel responding to his distress call. Then another. And another. He sees a sail on the horizon. Exhaust from a smokestack on the other. Before long, there is an entire armada approaching. The radio handset is almost unusable, choked with other vessels extending offers of assistance and escort to safe harbor. 

The two cadets step up on either side of the new captain and each places a hand gently on his back. He nods to each of them, his shipmates. He reaches out and, cautiously at first, places his hand on the wheel. He feels the wooden handle, the shallow grooves worn ever so gently in the shape of the former captains fingers where she gripped and turned this wheel for years and years. His fingers don't line up just perfectly; the grip feels awkward and unpracticed. But the wheel turns fine. He'll get the hang of it. He carefully eases the throttle forward. The ship, with its still-shivering crew, shudders and clangs. But it starts to move. The ship motors forward, with a lot more smoke than he'd like, and leaving behind only the hint of a wake, but forward. The battered crew is short their most capable sailor. There are duties that require skills nobody on board has learned yet. But they are moving forward. The ship is surrounded now by other vessels, with tow ropes in hand if needed, and life rings at the ready.

By now the daylight has begun to darken, and the reluctant captain raises his eyes to the horizon. The tiniest imaginable little pin-prick of  light appears. Then it disappears. It reappears. It disappears. Reappears again. A beacon. He takes a long, slow deep breath. He lets it out. He smiles a weary smile at his crew. It will be a long, exhausting night, but this battered, listing ship is moving towards the harbor.

They're going to make it.

Chrissy's Memorial Service

Memorial Service for Chrissy Davis Hardy

2:00PM, Friday, June 23rd, 2023

Knollwood Baptist Church

330 Knollwood St

Winston-Salem, NC  27104

Reception to follow in the Fellowship Hall

The service will also be live-streaming at https://www.knollwood.org/events/memorial-chrissy-hardy

Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant

"You were a presence full of light upon this earth

And I am a witness to your life and to it's worth."

--The Mountain Goats, "Matthew 25:21" The Life of the World to Come

This blog is technically our family's, but everybody knows it's really Chrissy's outlet. I've written a few guest posts when she was too tired or busy to get one out, but I never thought I'd be writing this post, for this reason.

Yesterday was another very crummy morning. Chrissy has always had hard-to-get veins, and an added IV in her right arm ended up having to be pulled, and her arm was swollen from shoulder to hand and very painful. But she was in good spirits for my evening visit, all things considered. I brought her an oreo milkshake, which she ate about half of (which is pretty good for how her appetite had been this week), and we sat together and enjoyed watching the first half of the Wake Forest baseball game. We laughed, talked, and cheered on the Deacs. When her eyes started to get heavy, I came over and kissed her buzzed head and we prayed together: for her arm to feel better, for good rest, and for her to continue to be spared from the nausea and mouth sores that this chemo cocktail often creates. We said our goodnights and I told her I'd see her tomorrow. It was one of the best visits I've had with her since she was admitted 3 weeks ago. 

This morning, about 4am, I was awoken by a telephone call from an unknown number. In my sleepy stupor, I didn't get to my phone in time to answer. I remember being vaguely annoyed that maybe some spam call or wrong number was waking me up at this ungodly hour. But when the same number immediately called back, I snapped out of it and realized this was something important. The voice on the other end of the line informed me that Chrissy had paged her nurse to complain of a headache, and then become unresponsive when the nurse came to check her vitals. They could not rouse her, and she was immediately taken to the Cancer Center's ICU to be intubated and to do a CT scan. The urgency in the caller's voice--coupled with the early hour--made clear the seriousness of the situation. I threw on the closest clothes I could reach and tore down I-40 to the hospital.

Chrissy's platelets were being chewed up and spit out, first by her leukemia, and then by chemotherapy as well. Extremely low platelets make for high risk of bleeding; it's the reason why she'd been bruising so easily in the week or two before she was diagnosed. This morning that risk became a reality, and the CT scan revealed she had developed a very serious brain bleed. With her platelets at rock-bottom, it was not an option for neurosurgery to go in and drain that blood; they wouldn't be able to stop bleeding from an incision. The ICU staff tried everything they could to get around this problem by pushing multiple bags of platelets as quickly as they could, but her levels were just too low. 

Some things just can't be fixed. This was one of them. 

I was informed of the situation when I arrived at the ICU, and the unbelievably caring team escorted me to Chrissy's bedside. She was still unresponsive, but her excellent nurse, Travis, told me it was possible she could still hear me, so I talked her poor ear off over the gentle, rhythmic sound of the ventilator. Soon, Chrissy's mom arrived, followed by her dad shortly thereafter. We all spent time holding her hands, talking to her, crying, and praying over her. When the time came, we left the room briefly for them to extubate her, and then returned to hold her hands, kiss her head, and sit with her for a last few sacred minutes. Chrissy left this world peacefully, surrounded by overwhelming love. And our faith leads us to believe she entered into a Love even more profound. 

This world had 42 years of Chrissy. I was fortunate enough to be able to spend 20 of those years head-over-heels in love with her. The avalanche of calls and texts and tributes we've received today is a testament to how much Chrissy packed into those years. And yet they were nowhere near enough. For all who knew and loved her, another 50 years would still be too soon. 

What a woman. What a blessing to have witnessed her life. 

I love you all of it, Chrissy. With everything I am, for as long as I live, until I see you again.

-R