CowboyKenny

In my father's garage hung a handsaw. At age five it was almost as long as I was tall. It's back strong and true, the teeth sharp and set, a full carved rosewood handle, secured with five chromium-plated screws, one a medallion. The mighty Disston sang as I ran it back and forth through the pine plank. The soft vibrations travelling through my arms to my chest as the teeth cut their kerf. A wonderful scent permeated the air while sawdust floated slowly down landing in a warm pool of sunlight on the rough garage floor. Life unfolding as it should. This is the moment I became a woodworker. Wood beckons to us. Wood is resilient, flexible and forgiving, inviting and warm, bearing magnificent beauty, embodying traits that we appreciate. Wood is alive. I practice the craft in my own workshop now, my hands coaxing out wood's beauty, ushering from lumber to life. Working wood takes me back, the boy contentedly sawing.., things unfolding as they should.