Chapter 15 - Randy
My thoughts swirled as Craig and I walked back down toward my cabin. I’d invited him to the clearing, though I had no idea why.
Was it my way of apologizing to him for earlier—when I’d shut him out?
Even Jim—who’d been out to measure my trees many times—had never been in the clearing. There were plenty of places to take a rest in the shade and sit.
As if that wasn’t enough, now Craig was about to watch me work.
Again, though, it was something I’d done to myself. I could have refused or planned a day in the future. And a small part of me said that I should ask to reschedule.
But the rest of me wanted him there. The attention felt good, and I’d started to crave it.
I knew better, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Pen,” I ordered Russy as my cabin came into view.
He trotted over and sat next to the gate for his pen—waiting for me to let him in.
“He’s pretty well trained,” Craig said as we stopped beside it.
I chuckled. “Yeah. He’s a good boy.”
“Does he spend all day in the pen?” Craig asked as we turned to my workshop.
“Depends,” I replied. “He’s good, but he’s a herding breed.
If I’m not giving him a task, he wants to find one for himself.
That’s fine when I can keep an ear out for whatever he might be trying to get into.
But for his safety—and mine—I always have him in the pen when I’m working.
Shops aren’t exactly dog-safe, and if he was there distracting me, I could get hurt. ”
I paused and smiled. “He gets plenty of quality time, though. And his pen… run… whatever you want to call it, is big enough for him to get a lot of his energy out.”
“He sleeps inside, though. Right?” Craig asked as we started moving again.
I chuckled. “Of course. He’s got several beds. One downstairs near the woodstove, and another up in my bedroom. He’s not allowed on my bed, but the couch is ok… provided he’s not filthy.”
Craig laughed. “How do you enforce that?”
I grinned. “Very carefully.”
We stopped at the garage door of my workshop. “Wait here. I’ll open it up.”
Craig nodded. “Ok.”
I continued down to the regular door, popped inside, and hit the button for the garage door.
I grabbed my heavy apron and face shield. “Let me find you some safety glasses,” I said as Craig stepped inside.
“I’ve got some,” he replied.
“Oh… Ok.” I paused. “I guess normal shop safety rules apply. The only thing you’re probably not used to is the lathe. The most important safety rule is not to stand in the throw.”
“The throw…” he seemed to think about it for a second. “That’s the direction the item is spinning, right?”
I nodded. “Exactly. If a bowl comes off or flies apart at eight-hundred RPM, it can break a bone or worse faster than you can react.”
“How do you stay out of the way?”
I smiled. “You’ll see it in the way I stand. I’ll be to the side, either close to the drive end or the tailstock. My hands and arms will be in the most dangerous zones. And…” I motioned to my apron, “this will protect me from anything sharp that might shear off.”
He turned and looked around my workshop. “How about I stand over by the bandsaw. Is that safe?”
I nodded. “That’s a good spot, and I think you’ll be able to see from there.”
He backed off to stand near the bandsaw while I tightened a friction drive in my headstock.
I grabbed one of the small bowls that I’d gotten out of my shed to be finish-turned, settled it against the drive, and brought up my tailstock.
A couple spins and adjustments later, and I was satisfied that I’d gotten it centered.
I glanced up to see Craig watching me, then I noticed he wasn’t wearing his safety glasses. I chuckled and tapped the faceshield near my temple a couple of times.
Craig laughed, flushed, and reached for his safety glasses. He slid them on and gave me a thumbs-up.
I nodded, grabbed my gouge, moved into position, and reached for the switch. Then I remembered something.
“It might be loud,” I warned. “Do you have ear protection?”
Craig patted around his neck, where I’d seen him wear banded earplugs at the mill. Then he shook his head. “I didn’t bring them.”
I motioned to where I had a small container of orange earplugs. “I think you’ll be ok. But if you want something, there’s the bin.”
“Thanks.”
I nodded, then turned on my lathe.
Rounding was always the slowest part of the process, and even though the bowl blank had been first shaped when it was green, it had naturally shifted during the drying process. It meant I had to start my lathe slow—around two-hundred RPM—or it could shake from the imbalance.
I moved toward the base to shape the tenon—filling the workshop with the familiar tck-tck-tck-tck-tck of my gouge meeting the wood. It didn’t take long for the contact to become constant, and I only had to do a bit more shaping before turning off the lathe again.
“Do you normally do all these changes?” Craig asked as I removed the friction drive and seated my chuck into the headstock.
I chuckled. “Yes and no. Usually, I’ll have a bunch of blanks ready to go. I’ll round one, then the next. I’ll get them all done before switching to the chuck.”
He nodded. “That makes more sense, less downtime swapping.”
I smiled at him. “Exactly.”
I turned the lathe back on, still slow, so I could shape the outside of the bowl. As the tck-tck-tck subsided and my gouge ran smooth, I turned off the lathe again.
I spun the bowl manually a few times, running my fingers over the surface. How did I want the final piece to look? After a moment, I decided I wanted to feature some interesting grain near the rim of the bowl. It wouldn’t be enough to be enclosed, but I wanted the rim to curve inward slightly.
I repositioned my tool rest and started to round the interior. But even as shavings and dust peeled off, my mind wandered to Craig.
“I’m sure there’s somebody who will love you like you deserve.”
The words were like a skipping record in the back of my mind. I hadn’t processed them at the time—too stuck in my memories—but after he’d apologized and we’d moved on, my brain played back the conversation.
They weren’t the words of a flirt, and there was a sincerity that was almost overwhelming.
I got the interior of the bowl to a good place and stopped the lathe. A burst of compressed air blew out the dust and shavings, then I ran my fingers over the wood as I spun the bowl.
“Hmm…” I grumbled as I felt something I didn’t like.
“Everything ok?”
I ran my hand over the spot. “Just a bit softer than I’d like, and I think there’s a tiny crack.”
“So it’s bad?”
I shook my head, turned, and grabbed my CA glue and accelerator. “I think it’ll turn away, but I’m going to stabilize it anyway.”
I doused the spot with the glue, then used the spray to set it. I gave it a few seconds, then tapped it with my fingernail. Satisfied, I moved my tool rest so I could work on the outside again.
With everything finally rounded, I turned up the speed.
My gouge was sharp, and the wood shaved away easily.
I glanced up at the end of the cut to see Craig watching with a gentle smile on his face. I shivered. He was a flirt, but it was working.
The next cut started cleanly enough, but feedback from the gouge caught my attention near the rim.
I stopped the lathe and tried to find the spot I’d felt, but nothing stood out. I figured that it was nothing and turned it back on.
I didn’t feel anything off the next two cuts, and I decided it was just my imagination. I glanced up at Craig again as I shifted to do another.
The push-cut started clean.
I thought about Craig standing in the clearing, awe written across his face.
The gouge caught, and time slowed to a crawl.
A crack boomed through the workshop as chunks of wood sheared off from the bowl and went flying.
Searing pain as a piece hit my arm.
“Randy!” The scent of protective alpha invaded my nose.
Time returned to normal.
“Son of a bitch!” I shouted as I turned off the lathe.
It was still spinning down as I turned, only for Craig to be right there. He took my arms in his hands. “Are you ok?”
“I…” I started to nod.
“You’re bleeding!”
I looked down to see a gash along my arm.
“I-I’ll drive you to the doctor,” Craig started. He ran his hand under my arm. “Is it broken?”
I shook my head. “I’m ok. It’s just a cut.”
“It looks deep.” Craig’s breathing was shallow, his protective scent almost overwhelming.
“I just need to wrap it.”
“I should get you to a doctor,” he repeated. “They need…”
“Look at me,” I commanded.
He looked up. His eyes were wide and his face pale. But there was something in his gaze.
And his scent.
He wasn’t reacting like this because of an injury. He was reacting to the fact that I’d been the one injured.
Something ached in my chest—a longing for that level of caring.
I swallowed and attempted to shove the feeling down, even as the cut started to sting. “It looks worse than it is. I just need to wash and wrap it.”
“I’ll grab one of the water bottles from your pack,” he said, not quite as frantic as he had been. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
I chuckled. “I have a washroom with an industrial sink. My first aid kit is in there.”
Some color started to come back into his face as he nodded. “Ok.”
“Let me get this stuff off,” I said, as I started to reach for my face shield.
“Let me,” he murmured, and the sincerity in his voice exposed more of that ache in my chest. “Try to keep your arm still.”
“Ok,” I breathed.
He removed my face shield and set it aside, then removed my apron. But what should have been routine actions were filled with tenderness. His calloused hands were gentle against my skin.
The adrenaline was fading, and his attention was almost too much.
“Where’s your washroom?” he asked, once again taking my injured arm in his hands—holding it like it was a priceless vase.
“Middle door,” I replied, unable to tear my gaze from where his thumb traced back and forth over a patch of uninjured skin.