Chapter 5 - Randy
Ribbons of wood curled in the wake of my gouge.
My current piece had reached that stage where it was round—the lathe no longer shaking and wood not chipping. It was the point where I could see the soul of the work start to take shape.
I completed another pass, then turned off the lathe. I ran my hand over the surface of the wood, feeling for spots that were punky or dense.
Satisfied that there was nothing surface-level to worry about, I turned up the speed on my lathe and switched it on again. I gave it a moment, then nodded when everything seemed steady.
This was my favorite part of the process. My gouge was sharp; each cut revealing the inner beauty of the wood—and I was the first person to see it.
What would it tell me? Did it want to be a bowl or a hollowform? How could I best honor the tree and give it a second life as a piece of art?
I made several more passes, loving the ease with which the gouge moved across the wood. Then I turned off the lathe again.
I spun the piece, looking at the figure. After a few minutes, I decided that a closed-form bowl was the best way to highlight everything. I nodded, switched the lathe back on, and turned a tenon. Then I flipped the piece and started shaping it.
Ribbons of wood piled on my arm and the floor as the form changed from a round blank into something resembling a bowl.
Once I was satisfied with the outside profile, I bored a hole then moved my tool rest so that I could hollow the bowl. Finally, it was down to sanding and adding the first coat of a food-safe sealant.
I glanced at my shop clock as I removed the bowl and set it aside with several others to remove the tenon later—when I mounted a faceplate.
“Two hours,” I said to myself, reaching up to turn off my respirator. “Not bad.”
I turned to look out the open garage door of my workshop.
Afternoon light streamed in, and I decided that it was time to get another chore out of the way.
I dug out a couple rolls of flagging tape and set them on the bench closest to the door, then I went inside my cabin to change into sturdy boots.
“Come on, Russy,” I said, opening his run. “Let’s walk the land.”
He barked an acknowledgement, whole body shaking with excitement.
I chuckled, ducked back into the workshop to grab the flagging tape, patted my pocket to make sure my phone was on me, then we started up the slope.
Russy ran ahead of me, nose to the ground and ears on a swivel as he investigated what the wildlife was up to. Every few seconds he’d turn back to make sure I was still following.
My eyes were sharp as I walked, noting the details of each tree I passed. Did I see damage? Was the canopy thick with leaves, or were there bare branches?
I’d call out my forest consultant toward the end of summer, but I liked to do my own evaluation early in the season. It let me identify any problems that might have cropped up over the winter and gave me an idea of the trees I wanted to address with them later.
Despite it being June, it was still cool enough for there to be small piles of dirty snow hidden in the shadows. The ground wasn’t muddy, but was soft enough for the soil to stick to my boots—and to Russy.
I reached a small clearing and paused. I turned back to look over my cabin and the lake beyond that. The water glittered between lines cut by speed boats and skiers, and the resort’s floating playground moved slightly with the waves.
Russy pressed his nose against my hand, and I turned to look at him. “You’re right.”
On paper, eighteen acres wasn’t a lot of land. And maybe it would have felt true to size if it were flat, or even gentle hills. However, forested and up the side of a mountain, it became more of a light hike than a walk.
I had wrapped flagging tape around several trees that didn’t look healthy before finally reaching the top edge of the property. There, I stopped at another clearing—mostly flat due to the bedrock beneath it.
I brushed dirt off a boulder that I’d sat on innumerable times, took a seat, and once again gazed out over my land and the lake.
Despite being only a short hike from home, this was one of my favorite places in the world.
A blackened ring of ancient bricks formed a fire-pit that Grandpa and I had sat at during cool summer nights as we “camped out” in the forest when I was a child—a tradition we maintained even into my adulthood, until they gave me the property and moved to a retirement community in Arizona.
Rusted eyebolts jutted from the ground—protected by rocks—for easy tent-raising.
I smiled. In a couple weeks I’d bring Michelle and Marco up for their own camping experience.
The resort did fireworks for a few days around the Fourth, and the view was perfect.
We could cook over the fire, make s’mores, enjoy the sights, and it would be just as magical for them as it had been for me.
Just as importantly, it would give Jessie and Yazmín a child-free night.
I looked around and made a mental checklist of things to do to prepare. My old tent needed inspecting, and the camping dishes required a good wash. I’d probably have to bring some things up a day or two in advance so that I didn’t have to lug anything heavy while supervising the kids.
Russy finally got tired of sniffing around, and he sat at my feet. I absentmindedly scratched his head while I closed my eyes and relished the peace around me.
A breeze off the lake stirred up a fresh scent while birds chirped in the trees. Sunlight beat down on my skin, but the heat of it was tempered by the coolness of the forest.
My home, my sanctuary, and my dog. All on a small lakeside property in the mountains.
There really wasn’t much more that a man could ask for.