Paring things down is an ongoing chore in our household. This time, the attic was in our sights. My wife had asked me again to please find another place to store my Fine Woodworking magazines. I had resisted this task over the years, offering up one excuse after another: no room in my shop, no safe location, harder to access when I need them. But this time I agreed. Maybe I could find a handy, safe spot for them in the shop after all. I had been thinking about this as a laborious task of lifting, hauling, and organizing. Nothing prepared me for an emotional journey.

I began my subscription in 1984. My high school shop teacher, Mr. Thomas, had subscribed, and I scoured each of his issues. I was in awe of the projects, craftsmanship, and information. Exposure to so many techniques and the sharing of knowledge was inspirational. After graduating, I took out a subscription, and I have never wavered since.

In the early 1990s, in a local farming publication, I found a complete collection advertised for sale by the daughter of a passionate woodworker who had passed on. This allowed me to backfill my library right to issue #1.

I was overjoyed at this acquisition. Years ago I chose to house the collection in shallow plastic boxes to keep them safe from moisture and any rodents keen to make nesting material out of my prized magazines. Now I began piling up the boxes by the back door, where they were to await transfer 150 feet to my shop and their new home: an old, inherited, single-board blanket chest I had outfitted with casters.

As the shifting of boxes began, so did the sorting and resequencing of issues that I had referenced and never refiled. This is where the gravity of this magazine, a paper storyline of my career and life, started to get a grip.

Since high school, I had earned my living through woodworking, and this magazine was always there to remind me of that passion and keep it burning. As the issues passed through my hands—whether I was counting them, collating them, or returning stray issues to their sequential home—images on the front and back spoke to me of projects and mentors present and past, and resonated with memories of my life and career.

This publication, a chronicle of woodworking but also of life and times, had changed and yet remained constant. I saw the era of black-and-white issues pass to color, the binding style shift, the size format decrease, the protective dust cover disappear. These were physical changes, but they reflected the passing of time, just as the icons and mentors inside did. From an article on basics by Tage Frid in issue #1 through so many articles by some still with us and others no longer, I witnessed the astounding array of contributors—so many names and faces. And on the back cover—so many projects of wonder. The diversity of work under the heading “Fine Woodworking” was staggering. All these were resounding in my head as I matched them with my own timeline.

The physical task bogged down in light of this emotional connection to a stack of some 300 magazines, which were so much more—a compelling woodworking narrative that ran parallel to my life at all junctures. But I finally completed the project. All the issues were tucked into their new home. The old chest in my shop seemed a fitting place for them.

With a copy of the digital archive, I now have the entire collection in a format much easier to access. But it doesn’t evoke the same sensations. As I hold the issues in my hands I can feel the passage of time, and I revisit the sensation of issues I held over 40 years ago while pondering my future career. For this nostalgic person, it’s the physical magazines that awaken these thoughts about time, life, and experience.

—August R. Reichert III works wood at Sunnyfields Cabinetry in Baltimore, Md., and at his home shop in Forest Hill, Md.

Photos: August R. Reichert III