I have always had a special affinity for wood.
Starting as a small boy, I was carving and making things out of wood. I grew up under the trees of the mixed deciduous forest of the Eastern Seaboard. White oak trees 100 feet tall. Their roots grow deep down into the earth. Some of these trees had been alive since before the time of the white man's arrival on these shores.
Maple, birch, hickory, elm, chestnut, beech, pine, cedar, fir, poplar, cherry, walnut, hemlock. All-around and overhead, trees. As a boy, I climbed and played in the trees. I grew up among men who knew the uses of each different species of tree and how to use different parts of the tree for different purposes. For these people, wood was an integral part of their lives. They respected and loved trees. As if by osmosis, these individuals imparted this love to me.
I learned to appreciate wood as a living thing, a sacred thing, something that was part of a man, a part of his life.
The first time that I got serious about working with wood was at a boatyard on Terminal Island in California. I was living on an old wooden schooner that had been built back in the 1930s. It had a mahogany hull 2 inches thick, steam-bent white oak ribs, a teak deck, and fir masts. The boatyard did repairs on wooden fishing boats which were still common at that time. Because my schooner was moored next to the yard I got to know the night watchman. When everything closed down and the workers went home, he let me go into the big shop and work on repairs for my own boat. During the day I hung around and watched, listened and learned from the old European craftsman who had spent their entire lives working in wood.