In the last while I have been trying to organize and/or pare down my files, books, and even writings of previous years. As promised in my Jan.1 New Years post I shall do this without too much attached ego. Some things will be deleted or scrapped. Even as my physical body will return to ashes (Eccl 3:20) so it is obvious that some of my precious brilliant thoughts will be deposited in trash (recycle bin?) if not by me then next generation. In similar vein I remind myself about blogging; not every post must be absolute fresh original if an 18 year-old article fits for today. Reuse, recycle!
Hence this dear threadbare article. It's so embarrassing and yet contains a tenderness which is rather touching to see way back there. And I happened upon this only a few days after Valentine's day which passed in a fairly non-celebrative way this year. 😔 Oh, and also a bit of tribute to my dad. I learned crudeness from him. He knew how to build big functional things, but he totally avoided finish carpentry. And also tribute to a high school forever best friend who now in his retirement is a master hobby carpenter, and he thinks I am quite good at writing! Anyway, for whatever reason, here it is.
November 10, 2002
Why does inspiration always have to come from faraway? Why not from one’s own home while sitting in the living room? In front of me is a crude coffee table/trunk which has sat before our eyes for years and years. I think it was 1978 when as a fresh youth pastor at a church in Saskatoon, SK, my wife Verna and I agreed that a piece of furniture to store records (yes, big records still) was needed. So in full consideration of our meager income I bought a couple of cedar boards, a bit of vinyl, and some foam, and then with the gracious help of a neighbor who owned a table saw, cut the pieces to size and I assembled it in our basement.
It is oh so crude. The wood itself is rough, with boards nailed together - nailed, not screwed - and big hinges in plain view and screwed in place with flat faced wood screws, each one with a flat washer rather than in countersunk holes. It has had several changes of roller wheels always encountering a bit of problem maneuvering on living room carpets. What an ugly piece of workmanship. Sitting here in my living room in the year 2002 it suddenly hits me - Verna and the children and our hundreds of guests over the years have been incredibly gracious about this ugliness sitting centre stage to every conversation - and I marvel at the infrequent times this thing has even been mentioned.
Now, just to continue the incredulity, imagine this. My wife says it’s beautiful! She lists some other features of this furniture piece, like the excellent vinyl upholstered lid which still has no rip in it, plus it has character! Character, maybe that’s it! She also mentions the fact that I made it. Historically this is not a daily occurrence in our household. I’m a bit slow to pick up the tools and I suppose to her this is also an evidence of latent potential! I think the character part may have to do with the fact that this time this character actually did it! So here it is, an ugly old chest still quietly doing its thing. Probably all these components by now contribute to its longevity. Heavens, maybe by now it’s valuable. I wonder, is this possibly a piece that maybe someday our kids will want to inherit?
There’s something in this old chest - and it’s more than the old records and memorabilia stored inside. People have been kind, yes, in not demeaning the crude workmanship. But more than that, this crude chest has a dignity and a right to be because it is an integral part of our story. For that reason it is now a treasure before our eyes. Value is not necessarily always determined by perfect workmanship, nor obviously by purchase price.
Maybe antique collectors know more about life than so far I had realized.
