His vision. It came down to a round tenon
of cured oak, a way to hold wood on a lathe.
His wife had forgotten how to cook. His pants
were soiled and wet.
Allan was laboring with insufficient oxygen
after multiple hospitalizations, every movement
a gift. His ability to maintain energy and stasis
were no longer accessible.
I had called before I approached. My shoppe
was only blocks from his home that served
for many years as a gathering place for our
monthly turner’s meeting. 2nd Saturday 930.
A daughter had come to stay with them
and a granddaughter, who apparently lived
close enough, was bringing food each day.
When I called he mentioned it had been
his wish to get out into the shop for an hour
that day. But this intention had been lost,
covered over with draining calls and he was
now resigned.
I was unsure, yet again, seeking his advice.
He often knew the way or many ways. His passion
had led the frequent grateful to investigate turning. Many would see Allan as a true master, unsung. My reaching out became his reason to rise.
His shoppe, once a model of order and grace
with a radiant wood stove and ample warmth,
was now mostly unattended, littered with success
and failings, obstacles in abundance, and was usually dark.
We got to figuring what was possible for me.
How was I going to bring these two 8 inch acorn
adornments into close resemblance, close enough
to be mistaken as identical twins. The challenge
was how to trim down the larger turning, how to hold this hard maple in a chuck. My vision was that
the acorn would soon rest atop a 4 x 4 cedar post
at the bottom of my front stairs.
In parting, he reflected back that all his companions, those who had started the turning club, were gone now, then quietly recognized, that yes there were some he had touched, whose lives were better for his efforts.
As I drove away, what lingered in the silence was
his wish to give, to be kind in the presence of pain.
August 28, 2026