Owen was a carpenter who built furniture. He chose hard woods like cherry, walnut and oak. His designs were sleek and understated.

 

His blonde little boy Brian walked into the shop one day and picked up a dark piece of walnut, tracing his finger along the grain lines.

 

"Hand it over," grunted the craftsman, bending over his bench. Reluctantly the boy passed it to his father. 

 

"Are you going to cut it?" the words slipped out before he could clamp his lips shut. 

 

Owen's mouth curled up at one corner. "It is beautiful. But it will not be useful until I turn it into a chair." Brian cringed at the screech of searing wood as it slid under the fierce blade. Dust and shavings flew like fireworks from the saw. 

 

All day the father and son measured and cut, adding planks to the pile of rough wood. Brian felt disappointed that the rich grain lines were dulled in the process of being made into lumber.

 

Over the next few weeks the two of them began assembling the chair with screws and pegs. It was starting to look like a rocking chair, with slender, curved crescents on each side. Brian all but forgot what the original wood had looked like, swirling lines like ripples on a pond. He obeyed his father's instructions, holding rungs in place, bending the soaked pieces, tightening screws. 

 

One morning Owen handed his son a sheet of stiff paper, crusted with grit.

 

"Use it to sand the seat, like this." He rubbed in circles across the rough wood. Brian wiped timidly. 

"Harder," his father reprimanded. For reasons he could not articulate, Brian felt sorry for the wood. He resisted causing it pain. Owen wrapped his arms around his son, adding the strength of his brawny shoulders to the boy's efforts. They sanded together this way until Brian learned how. 

 

After hours of tedious scraping, sawdust floating in the warm air of the workshop, Brian paused to look at the chair. The beautiful pattern was visible. He could see the concentric lines reverberating like an echo. His father handed him an oily cloth.

 

"Now rub the chair with this."

 

As Brian smeared the fragrant oil across the seat of the rocking chair, the wood began to shine. The beauty he had seen weeks ago reappeared, making the arms and legs glossy. When the finish was dry Owen invited Brian to be the first person to rock in the chair.

 

His eyes widened at the offer, and Brian lowered himself slowly into the smooth seat, resting his stubby elbows on the curved armrests. He looked up at his father, grinning with the realization that he had helped create something wonderful. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you are expecting life to be a slick tube, through which you will slide unchanged into eternity, it can be insulting to find it lined with saws and sandpaper instead.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Jenny Stein

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