New Board Members!

"works of art" aka "boards"

Tried out the new "Lumber Maker" today that I bought online - trying to make some boards out of trees.  Why?  If you know, let me know.  I guess it was just to see if I could.

I read in Jack London's novels about the Klondike Gold Rush guys that, after they hauled all their stuff up the Chilcoot Pass and down the other side to the lake, made boards out of trees and then made boats to travel down the Yukon in.  Jack was a socialist, by the way, but I didn't find out about that until after I had read his stories.  Honest.  Who wood?



Anyway, I had to show Leta my first screwy looking board (the one on the left in the picture), and she thought it was an absolute work of art!  "We should finish it and make a baby cradle out of it!"  (She has baby on her mind a lot since she'll be a grandma next spring.)  "But I think we need more than one board to make a cradle" I said.







Boat building at Bennett Lake during Klondike Gold Rush (1897-98)



I found out that making boards is pretty tricky, even with a chainsaw, and even with a "Lumber Maker".  You screw down a 2X4 on the log and clamp the tool onto the bar of the chainsaw, and then you slide along the 2X4 to cut the board.

I'm thinking maybe the best thing now is to detach the 2X4 and use that.  I could have done that in the first place with a whole lot less effort, but it wouldn't have been as much fun.

But at least I wasn't board.

And now you know what I saw.

Wood.

In the little ol' log cabin in the shadder of the pines

The Little Old Log Cabin
-- Robert Service

When a man gits on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town,
An' he ain't got nothin' comin' an' he can't afford ter eat,
An' he's in a fix for lodgin' an' he wanders up an' down,
An' you'd fancy he'd been boozin', he's so locoed 'bout the feet;
When he's feelin' sneakin' sorry an' his belt is hangin' slack,
An' his face is peaked an' gray-like an' his heart gits down an' whines,
Then he's apt ter git a-thinkin' an' a-wishin' he was back
In the little ol' log cabin in the shadder of the pines.

When he's on the blazin' desert an' his canteen's sprung a leak,
An' he's all alone an' crazy an' he's crawlin' like a snail,
An' his tongue's so black an' swollen that it hurts him fer to speak,
An' he gouges down fer water an' the raven's on his trail;
When he's done with care and cursin' an' he feels more like to cry,
An' he sees ol' Death a-grinnin' an' he thinks upon his crimes,
Then he's like ter hev' a vision, as he settles down ter die,
Of the little ol' log cabin an' the roses an' the vines.

Oh, the little ol' log cabin, it's a solemn shinin' mark,
When a feller gits ter sinnin' an' a-goin' ter the wall,
An' folks don't understand him an' he's gropin' in the dark,
An' he's sick of bein' cursed at an' he's longin' fer his call!
When the sun of life's a-sinkin' you can see it 'way above,
On the hill from out the shadder in a glory 'gin the sky,
An' your mother's voice is callin', an' her arms are stretched in love,
An' somehow you're glad you're goin', an' you ain't a-scared to die;

When you'll be like a kid again an' nestle to her breast,
An' never leave its shelter, an' forget, an' love, an' rest.



Robert Service cabin in Dawson City



Still Little. Still in the Woods.

The cabin is now 5 courses high, which makes it above the waist when you stand next to it.  There has been no change there for the last few weeks, after the initial flurry of activity early in September.

Part of the reason was the flurry, I'm sure.  My old joints required days of sauna baths and backing off of the lifting to recuperate.  Cabin building is not a senior-friendly activity.

The other effect was a waning interest on the part of my Junior Lumberjack helper.  Maybe it was the realization that there would be no electricity or cable TV.  And there is both in the house, plus heat and a refrigerator full of food.  Maybe it was getting the wheels - a V6 Pontiac GrandAm with a stereo and bucket seats.  "The Call of the Road" vs. "The Call of the Wild"...?

Made me think of the old verse:

"For which of you, intending to build a tower (or a log cabin), sitteth not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it?"

And then Robert Frost's poem:

"One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."  (or a builder of cabins)

So was I once myself a swinger of birches;
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood

So the "Little Cabin In The Woods" is still little.  Still in the woods.  Very still.

It will call me back when it's time to build again.

(not the "Little Cabin")