Some objects have meaning beyond the beauty of the wood. They are cherished not only for their form but also for the memories they hold, like love letters from the past. I take special pleasure in making those objects, which I call “heritage” pieces.
::::: When the father of a long-time customer died, he wanted a frame to hold a card from the memorial service. The two-sided card included his father’s photograph, biography and scripture from the service. I made a frame that floated the card between two pieces of glass, so that it could be seen from both sides. The frame is made of red oak, culled from the stately tree that shelters the father’s headstone.
::::: A Missouri man spent childhood summers with his three sisters on their grandfather’s farm, in a log cabin built a century earlier. The farm was no longer in the family but the man’s wife had retrieved pieces of the cabin’s oak logs, scarred with worm tracings and knotholes. She wanted four pens, one for each sibling, and sent them as Christmas gifts with a sketch of the farm. The memory of that log cabin will live through those pens for many generations.
::::: As a retired U.S. Navy Reserve Master Chief Corpsman, I was compelled to visit the U.S.S. Constitution when I was in Boston. “Old Ironsides” was dry-docked for repairs and I wanted to explore every inch of her. Talking to a young sailor at the entrance, I mentioned my Navy experience and must have said something about making pens, too.
“Stop here before you leave the ship, Master Chief,” he said. I did. There he stood with two grocery bags of oak from deep inside the hull, pieces that were being replaced and discarded. I carried those bags on the flight home like they were gold.
There were enough chunks for 48 pens. I designed a certificate for them, which includes a limited edition number, a composite graphic from the ship’s website, my Navy title and the date I was given the wood. I’ve only made nine, because I only make them for people with a strong Naval heritage.
The first one was given to a WWII vet by his daughter. When he opened it, he cried. I couldn’t have asked for a better reaction.
::::: My daughter Amanda was getting married, so I pulled a rocking chair—given to my great-grandmother when she was married in 1865—from a corner in the garage. Patched and repaired many times, it had reached the end of its useful life in a flood. The beech wood seat made a fine box set on feet from the rockers, still flecked with blue paint. I etched a line drawing of the chair on the lid and finished with a time line tracing the family links from the past of my ancestor to my daughter’s future.
These are the kind of things that make what I do more meaningful—to me, to my client and to the generations that will treasure the pieces.