My Woodworking Life, A Mystical Journey

By Peter G. Ericson

A pictorial book containing 40 photos and 40 drawings, woodworking in nature. Travel and culture discriptions. Mystical or Spiritual occurrences. The book contains stories of success as well as failures in my profession. Personel stories of love, loss and regret, then love again. Stories with humor, passion and gratitude of relationships with friends and loved ones. The book is a "how to do it" one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350904994

Book preview

About the Author

I realize, in cautious retrospect, that I have nearly always done what I have wanted to do, or I wanted to do, what I did. Both paths work. The first sounds self-centered, the second determined. From an early age I always wanted to do stuff, then sell it; chopping firewood, picking, and preserving crab apples or blackberries, with help from Mom, were some of my favorites. Those endeavors led to mowing lawns and the paper route. Delivering the news paid for a desire to explore as well as an athletic passion. Just a few years later some of this work would become an extension, or a conduit to my woodworking career.

In between this melding of interests, something else happened; the sport of Tennis, and of course what goes hand and hand with tennis, Love. The eye-to-eye coordination to hit the yellow ball was always a prerequisite in helping to keep my fingertips intact. Accidents are a part of woodworking, we just try to minimize the severity, then carry on. The joy of working with wood, coupled with the client’s gratitude is well enough to overcome obstacles that are inevitable.

Variety in my work not only came from many minds but from the occasional change in location, hence the table of contents. Also, the economy and or, natural disasters can lead to migration. That travel though, opens so many new doors.

On the surface my endeavors and paths chosen may appear to be self-rendered. But wait. Could my motivations have come from somewhere else? Maybe we should call this unknown;

The Mystical Journey

Copyright © Peter Ericson, 2023

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Published by Peter Ericson.

Trade Paperback ISBN: 979-8-3509049-9-4

Cover Illustration

The cover illustration, painted by Molly Ericson, in collaboration with her dad, the author, has a central theme of life in its most exposed form. The tree may appear to be in its later stages of life, contorted and somewhat frail, but still strong within. The colorful, illuminated spheres represent new life. The tree is the American Sycamore, found mainly in valleys with abundant life within the mid-Atlantic states.

Contents

Alternative Suggestions on How to Approach this Book

Thank you for beginning your interest in my book. I hope the excitemet continues with every flip of the page. You may start exploring, as you do with most other books, continuing in a straight line from Page 1 through Page 300. As you read, see and feel from this book, my life does not often continue in a straight line. Life has many curves.

As an alternative to the norm, or as a prerequesite to reading in full, may I suggest checking out the three appendices in between chapters 13 and 14.

The first appendix - Photos and Drawings - is especially attractive to those who are familiar with woodworking and its construction. You will see pieces of furniture that are either familiar or totally unusual, as well as construction methods that are timelessly proven or are variations on the theme. This appendix is listed in alphabetical order so that you may look up what is of interest to you. As the book progresses, you may see how my knowledge of construction moves forward with each new item that I built, again with the curves as well as straight lines.

The second appendix - Mystical Highlights - is listed in order of occurrence, #1 through #14. There are two parts to each mystical occurence. The first occurrence reveals itself without intervention; it is given to me. The second part, an explanation, is revealed in real life, also beyond my control. I connect the two by means of stating refer to…" All the mystical occurences are true to fact; nothing is concocted. The time gap between the two related occurrences may be decades, or possibly the concept of time is not a factor.

The third appendix is entitled People and Places. This appendix idea came to me after final completion of the book. The book is geographical in nature. Each chapter is a new location in progression with my work. I have tried to list all people and places in the book, whether names in text are mentioned or not. I subtitled the appendix with,Look yourself up. If you cannot find yourself, don’t give up.

If your name is not mentioned within the text, pardon me, you are still there in spirit.

Thank you,

Peter Ericson

Dedicated to my daughters,

Molly, Sasha, Raine, and Stephanie.

So that they may know me before they knew me.

Acknowledgments

Ms. Brenda Lowrance of Kings Mountain, North Carolina: First a friend, then a warm, diligent collaborator. I thank her for all her advice in pursuing my book. She has passed, never to be forgotten.

Mom: Mrs. Barbara Gumb Ericson: Who, in her quiet way, has always appreciated who I am and what I have done.

Maps by Stephanie Blauvelt Ericson

Cover by Molly Blauvelt Ericson

Formatting & Editing by Jennifer Hart & William Oleszczuk

Dedication Photo by Timothy Mark Ericson

Photographer Mr. Brian McDonald

Photographer Mr. Ed Callahan

Proofreading by Sherry Robertson

I Am

A Student (Always)

A Woodworker/Cabinetmaker/Millworker

A Salesman (My work sells itself)

A Designer

A Mechanical and Architectural Draftsman

An Estimator

A Book Keeper

An Engineer (Test, Test, Test.)

A Finisher (Touch, sight and smell)

A Hardware Installer

A Delivery person

An Installer

A Photographer (Heritage)

A Writer

A Traveler

An Educator

FIGURE 1 - Wooden Mallet

My personal mallet has many layers. The interior is made of Mahogany and Black Walnut. The exterior is of Birdseye Maple, a harder wood. The inlaid diamonds, even harder, are made of Ebony. The striking end shows wear and tear. The patina of the handle grows from the labor of my work.

All

All has been given to me.

My parents were given to me.

My sisters and brothers also.

My extended family and all those that came before; Given to me.

The Women closest to me, all given to me.

My Daughters; Each given to me.

Over the years I’ve had a handful of truly special friends; All given to me.

Celebration; given to me.

We are all tied together

Self Made ____

Where does the inspiration to create something new begin? It may begin with a visual, or possibly a non-visual, connection; something stirs the pot, spins the wheel, gets the vibrations of the imagination flowing, then we decide to act.

His medium was wood. Definition of medium, - The In-Between sandwiched between the mind and the finished product.

He told me once how he would find washed-up mahogany logs at the edge of the sea while walking the shore of some Caribbean island. He was a man of slight frame. How he managed to drag a tree trunk to his studio could only be explained by the will of the mind. To me, it was odd seeing him in a photograph, standing, smiling, his sculpture towering over him. Those were happier times, before the war, I presume.

I imagine the medium of his work was not as important as what he was about to do with it. The species or even the quality of that fine wood was not his first consideration. It may not have been a factor in the process at all.

For this particular sculpture he began with a block of wood - six inches square by about one foot long, hard and dense. Only he knew what was hidden beneath the surface, what that small block of wood would manifest into. He started to carve, chips of wood in the shape of his gouge falling where they may. The work probably didn’t take too long, an hour or two at most. What was left of that block of wood was a physical image of a stocky, well-built, naked and faceless man. In his left hand a chisel, and in his right a mallet - tools of the trade. The stocky, well-built man did not have smooth skin. Every inch of his body, from toe to scalp, was covered with gouge marks, chips of wood surrounding his feet. The finished sculpture was entitled:

Self-Made Man

Artist - Herbert (Arby) Kenny

Preface

The two-part title and cover drawing have caught your eye. Woodworking is fascinating because it represents physically creating something from yourself that is tangible with end results, and in relative time creating something, anything, that brings joy. Woodworking has done that for me for most of my adult life. Because of this, I have very rarely considered my daily endeavors of building a variety of physical objects to be work. What a privilege.

The mystical part of the title is the hands-off part, something intangible. Unlike an object (a piece of furniture, a turned bowl, a metallically glazed piece of pottery or an ear ring), it is something that we try to explain, but has no real basis. However, that does not mean that it does not exist. It’s like another world beyond our own that somehow fulfills us even more greatly than the physical.

The cover drawing is of a tree without exterior bark, leaves, nuts or fruit, seemingly naked, possibly without life. To me there is a certain beauty to things in their simplest forms. Life exposes itself when all the covers are removed. At the end of each seemingly dying limb is a shimmering light that represents new life. The drawing is a symbol of eternity.

The book’s driving force is the 22 locations where I have made my living. Included in the chapters, in-between woodworking experiences, are short stories of triumphs and failures, crime and retribution, natural and personal tragedies and how life rebounds with love. There are stories of geography and how those trails lead to cultural changes.

From the beginning to the end and unknowingly throughout the book are stories beyond our planning - stories that begin secretly like the hidden roots of trees revealing their mysteries on their own time like budding flowers of spring. These stories are first told in the form of dreams, that after time, which of course is relative, transform themselves into reality. Then there are physical locations that begin as mental mysteries which in their own time reincarnate themselves, reflecting the past. There is even a woodworking story concerning a piece of furniture that is built three times over a 20-year period that unites lives unknown to each other.

As of this year I am 64 years old with chosen solitary time on my hands. Lately I’ve realized that not only the ones closest to me, but also friends, do not come to me by chance, but are rather given to me. All the people I’ve known (helpful, troublesome, intelligent, less than privileged), the people that have crossed my path have all been given to me. My brothers, my sisters, my mom and dad, my closest women, my children have all been given to me.

The many paths that my life has taken may seem to have been chosen by me but upon closer look could not have been. It would be vain of me to suggest that I am the director, the creator of where I have been, what I have accomplished or what I have left to do.

So, which is the driving force of my life; the years of woodworking experience, or the unknown mysteries that randomly reveal themselves, guiding my life along ahead of itself? Are we the ruler of our life or is something else? these questions keep us moving forward.

Introduction

First Reflection

Let us start from the beginning. My resourses are my brothers and sisters, my Mom and Dad and what makes up the very foundation of our American society; the neighborhood and the people who make it all work. Who better to be the sourse of past information than my ninty-nine year old Mother. (Present year 2023). Same for many of her generation it is their time to relish in the process of remembering the past. She remembers her Mother protesting for prohibition. During the depression she remembers sitting on the front steps of her home sharing food with others less fortunate.

She then takes pride when telling the story of the cross-country train ride to San Diego, California to wait for Dad to return from the Phillipines. We then would reminess about our first home as a compete family. I asked Mom; How did you and Dad find what you both thought was the best place to raise a family? Her answer; We were on a Sunday drive through the country-side. Her face would always light up when talking of this favorite place of hers. Our street was called Hutchins Circle. It was not a circle, but more in the shape of a lolly-pop, one way in, around the circle, same way out. Why did Mom love this place? The simple answer; all her friends were there, all in walking distance. Our house was first on the corner sharing Main Street, across Main the Junior High school, down Main the center of town, the common, the Congregational church, all in walking distance. On occasion in my first bedroom, after saying the nightly prayer, and being tucked into my single bed, lying on my back I would wait to watch the performance that would happen right before my eyes. Beyond and to the left and right of my toes were the posts of the bed’s footboard. I was amused and intrigued by the carved ornaments on top of each post. They were either in the shape of an acorn or a pineapple- since this is New England, they were probably acorns. As the room got darker the performance began. As each car on Main Street drove by, the beams of light from the headlights would enter though the street facing window. Without hesitation the light would travel from right to left, high on the wall in front of me. The beam would travel slowly enough for me to follow as if it was more than just a beam. It would guide my eyes until it briefly hesitated upon the upper half of the door in the left corner of the room. After the light paused it would quickly retreat upon the same path and out the window like the back draft of a fire. I would lie still as the whole process repeated itself until, of course, I fell asleep.

What is it? What is called All is what started in my first bedroom. It is what the light hesitated upon for that moment in the left corner of my room; the appearance on the surface of the door. The door was not painted, nor was it a solid framed door with solid panels. What it was, though, was much more captivating, especially when illuminated briefly by light. At the time I did not know that it was a veneered red birch door, or that it was not just one sheet piece of veneer. All I knew at the time was that a beam of light illuminated an odd and interesting pattern that caught my interest. After years of woodworking it is easy to explain how grain patterns in veneers, when book-matched multiple times, can create images from simple to complex. Throughout my woodworking career the interest and excitement that comes from viewing grain patterns from a solid board to specifically sliced veneers have never waned. Never once have I said, That’s a boring piece of wood, or That veneer is too brittle and unmanageable. Where there is a will there is a way to create.

FIGURE 2 - Drawing of Book-Matching Veneers

The first of these three figures represents a single veneer. It may be picturesque or simply grained. The second figure shows how the image can double just by flipping itself over. The last image of four of the same veneer can mesmerize, or at the very least stir the imagination.

So, about the traveling beam of light that illuminated the grain pattern of the corner door in my first bedroom. Was it a coincidental happening that sparked my interest in my future career? It could be all speculation, but it could have been something else also. Are there present occurrences in our lives that have connections to our life’s path in the future? As far as I am concerned it has happened to me in many ways, all of which make up the basis of this book.

This simple little bedroom story is an introduction to the bigger picture that lies ahead. The main path of this autobiography or the vehicle that does the driving is the career that I have referred to so many times as Woodworking and Cabinetmaking. The highways are never-ending that have led to the 22 locations of work that create the skeleton of this book. Of course, I chose, as we all do, which highway to take to get to the next location. However, there are other kinds of realities that lead us along, that at the time of departure, we are unaware of. That is what this book, this life, refers to: the forces that have lead me along my path. All the statements in this book are true; that is, they are not fiction. Any elaborations of the factual stories are only for your entertainment. There will be stories that come in the form of visions or occurrences that are not of our own making, that reveal themselves to us outside of our own time frame. There have been dreams that reoccur time after time until they are manifested. Physical objects and places that are either taken for granted or somehow questioned reveal their meaning many years later. All these mysteries are a part of the driving force of this book.

As you read this book from beginning to end, or just thumb through looking at the photos and studying the drawings, you will find a variety of short stories. As in all good woodworking books there will be stories of crime and occasional passion. There will be stories of desperation and sadness followed by re-building and celebrations of accomplishment. It’s all in the path of life’s journey whether we care to see the helping and guiding hands or whether we think we do it all in our own way. In the end it’s assuring to know that we are not alone.

Preface #2

On occasion throughout the book I will refer to my only other profession, which is playing and teaching tennis. It has been a profession that at times I felt very passionate about and considered the activity as a necessary aid in more ways than one to my woodworking. I considered most important the development of hand eye coordination, basically for safety reasons. The more you play the more you develop the ability to concentrate on watching the ball sink itself into the strings, becoming one with each other, rebounding together, creating spin, curving, sinking, rising. It’s all part of the passion. More importantly it develops a bond between the eyes and fingers, so nothing is lost between you and the blade, or knives, or cutters. Besides safety, it was also always invigorating to start with tennis early in the morning to kick the energy level up before getting to the shop. In many ways tennis influenced my woodworking career, from jump-starting the business to keeping the body flowing.

Chapter One

Beverly, Massachusetts

(Winter of 1975)

Night School at the Claude H. Patten Vocational

You can come in as often as you like.

The sport that I enjoyed for the last dozen or so years also was responsible for moving me in my new direction. Tennis is a tough sport to learn and master and I was getting more and more frustrated with the lack of improvement in most of my students. I was twenty-two years old at the time and probably getting a little antsy, looking for a change, a new and morefulfilling direction to send my life. While thumbing through the local newspaper, I noticed a small advertisement for adult evening woodworking classes at a trade school.

The class was two evenings per week at a cost of $20.00 plus materials. I jumped at the opportunity.

As I entered through the shop door for the first time my visual view was like an impressionistic painting. Every inch of the woodworking space, floor to ceiling, front to back, left to right was occupied with stuff that I immediately felt comfortable with, most of which I knew nothing about. Some things, though, I did recognize. To the left were four large wood turning lathes. To the right were work benches with flat butcher block maple tops. In the center of the room were three large industrial pieces of machinery: a monstrous thickness planer, an 18" jointer and in the middle an old cast iron table saw. I had no experience with any of these machines. The instructor took care of any initial inexperience by carefully explaining, visually and physically, the details of each machine. Under his watchful eye I slowly became comfortable and slightly confident; not too confident, though - he emphasized safety and respect for the machines. I became very comfortable with him.

Before starting my first project, I purchased my first woodworking book; a book of New England colonial style furniture, a style that I was most familiar with. For my first project I chose a trestle style dining room table. The appropriate wood was soft knotty pine. It fit the style and was easy to work with for a beginner, and I also liked the large solid knots. The table consisted of a variety of parts which added to the learning experience; the top was 3’x6’, the two trestles joined to the top by battens and finished at the floor with a shaped foot, all of which was held together by a horizontal stretcher with wedged through tenons.

FIGURE 3 - Drawing of Colonial Trestle Table

A structural problem of this early-dated colonial trestle table should be pointed out, which is the horizontal wedge inserted through the mortised tenon at each end of the stretcher. The purpose of the wedge is to pull tight the trestles to the stretcher, giving the table its stability. Over time (years), those two horizontal wedges can loosen just from natural use of the table. They may even fall to the floor only to be picked up by the family dog and playfully chewed out of shape. If these wedges were to be made vertically, gravity, along with constant use of the table, would tighten the joint. In my future contemporary trestle tables you will notice the difference.

My class was scheduled for two nights per week, but I wished that I had more time. I asked my instructor if I could come to the class more often. To my surprise, he answered, You can come in as often as you like.

When the table was completed I stained it with a traditional color of Minwax Red Mahogany and then top coated with seven layers of varnish. Before each coat I heated the varnish in a double boiler eliminating any bubbles in the liquid. It’s been 40 years since that last coat of varnish and I am pleased and proud to say that four generations have enjoyed its use. It needed refinishing, though, which has been done. Now the table top is back to its original beauty.

Winter thankfully turns to spring, but the evening course had to come to an end. The educational course had worked its magic to inspire and motivate me to investigate what could be next. Since I was beyond the trade school level by a few years, for full time education I set my goal to the college level. That plan seemed to be scarce close to home but I found a few options out west in Colorado. As the New England summer wore on, each sunset seemed to pull me closer to the Rockies.

Chapter Two

Pueblo, Colorado

(1975-1976)

First Year of Woodworking School, University of Southern Colorado

Rocky Mountain High

I applied to three potential colleges with woodworking programs, one in the northern foothills in the city of Boulder, one deeper in the Rockies named Colorado State and the third in the southern city of Pueblo. It was the middle of August, and I was overly anxious to hit the road. In my haste, or possibly my age, it didn’t occur to me that I had not received acceptance to any of these colleges. In my presumption I moved ahead, packing up my car with all that I owned or needed, which was not much. The colonial dining trestle table found its next home in my parents’ kitchen.

This trip across the heartland of America was the first of eight, each one an adventure to be cherished. Not only did I see the contours of the land change from the rolling hills of Kentucky to the immense stretches of flat farm land, but I also briefly stopped at small communities along the way, seeing a different way of life. After two days I crossed the eastern border of Colorado. Having driven for so long I needed to stop and get out to stretch my legs, and when I did, I saw the end of the earth looming in all four directions. Getting thirsty for new life, I continued until, to my amazement, something magical began to happen. It was like a mirage; directly in front of me, growing out of the prairie was the first peak of the Rocky Mountains, Pikes Peak. As if in slow motion the mountain grew backwards, starting from the rocky top, descending to the forest, becoming one with the foothills, then joining the prairie which I was a part of. Then a second magical sensation happened, this one affecting my sense of smell. Cow manure, mountains of it, seemed to rise out of the west, then the shorter cows, thousands of them. As I got closer to Denver the Rocky Mountain range was in full sight. Then, a third amazing occurrence happened. You can imagine the smile on my face and the possible tears running down my cheeks as John Denver’s most famous song came on the radio: Rocky Mountain High.

There was no reason to stop driving, so I just climbed in elevation, into the foothills and further westward to the first college on my list. Upon arriving at the campus, I walked briskly as if my feet were above the ground (maybe it was the light air) to the admissions office and inquired into my acceptance to the university. The woman behind the glass hesitated slightly and then replied, You’re not. I was shocked. I turned and ran, looking for the nearest phone booth to call the second school on my list. What was I thinking (or not)? Here I am in the middle of nowhere, not accepted after driving thousands of miles. Now I was anxious and nervous as I dialed the number to the second college on my list. It was somewhere south,