365 Jobs: Brother William

Adirondack Sketches:

Brother William

Between a charcoal grill and a keg on ice
before a half dozen friends who tried to dress nice,
Brother William pronounces: "Husband and wife."
Couples by the hundred he's bonded for life
— or some brief stretch of it — in back yards, grassy
parks, open space under birches.
Never in churches.
These are joyous affairs with a simple touch.
"For people," he says, "who can't afford much."
He does it for free. 
He says: For love.


Note: The man who I call "Brother William" is the man who introduced me to the Plattsburgh Hillbillies.  He's a noble man (in the untitled sense), as you might expect since he's the son of Ken Laundry.  He's also the only man I've ever met who has been turned into a bobblehead doll.  If you would like to buy a genuine William D. Laundry bobblehead for $20, the proceeds go to an endowment at SUNY Plattsburgh.  Call 800-964-1889.

365 Jobs: Ken Says

Adirondack Sketches: 2001

Ken Says

The first time my father took me to the Forks
— the town, Ausable Forks —
those fifteen miles took all day by wagon.
On Blueberry Hill you had to stop and chock
the wheels so the team could rest.
Later I'd ride our old mare
and later still — this would be, oh, 1929 —
me and some boys shared a Ford Model A. 
A mounted patrol stopped us.
Our driver was fourteen, no license of course.
The trooper consulted his gelding, I swear,
turned his back to us and muttered,
adjusted the saddle for five minutes
while we stewed, scared.
Well, the man let us go
'cuz we needed a way to get to school.
That's how things was done.
It was horse sense.



Evenings after a glass of scotch, Ken would tell a story with a straight face so you never knew exactly when the truth was left behind, if ever.  I heard this one several times.
Here's another:
'32 Ford, '80 Calendar, '64 Story

365 Jobs: Helping Ken

Adirondack Sketches: Tuesday, June 27, 1999

Helping Ken

"Need a hand?"
"Nope."
"Can I help anyway?"
"Doubt it."
(Which means yes.)

Old Ken couldn't lift this dock alone,
but he would manage
with the wile of eighty-odd years
to winch, drag, set it in place.
His movements, stiff.
His knees, weathered.
His grip, when we shake hands,
like the clamp of death.

Job done,
he climbs aboard his
skeletal tractor,
a relic, 'Fifty-One Ford,
for the uphill journey home.
Maintained where it counts,
the naked motor
purrs.



I've written extensively about Ken Laundry, starting here:
Ken Laundry: The Ice Saw, The Double-Bladed Ax
and ending here:
Another Death in the Family.

365 Jobs, Day 179: The Rat Face Lure

June, 1996

You don't get to choose the places you love.  Sometimes you're just passing through, and it hits you.  Or you might spend 18 years in your home town and still hate it as much as I hated mine.  It's the people as much as the location.  The first time I drove into La Honda I knew within 30 seconds that it was home.  And it still is.

I first came to the Adirondack Mountains of upper New York State when at the age of 14 I spent a summer at Hawkeye Trail Camp on Silver Lake.  I returned for the next three summers.  My final summer in 1965 I was a camp counselor, my first paying job, where at the age of 17 I spent as much time as possible in the company of an amazing girl (who would eventually become my wife) while taking breaks twice a day to teach kids how to shoot a gun.  As Riflery Instructor it was my job to put a .22 Winchester in the hands of little children and take them to the rifle range.  In the process I became a great shot.  It didn't seem weird at the time.

1963.  Me standing left.  JK front center.  Duncan 3rd row center.

Thirty years later I return to the Adirondacks.  Hawkeye Trails closed in the 1970's.  Ex-campers JK and Duncan bought part of the run-down camp and refurbished it as a summer retreat for their families.  Every year in late June they have to repair and re-open after the hard Adirondack winter.  This year, 1996, they invite me to come and help.  They call it Workfest.

I remember the Adirondacks from the 1960's as a poverty-stricken area of terrible roads and survival housing.  Now the roads are smooth; the houses freshly painted.  Compared to California, the land is lush and green.

Arriving after noon, I find JK and Duncan down at the lakeshore.  Duncan is little changed.  He seems to feel the same about me.  There's the instant ease of old friendship after a 30 year gap.  Meanwhile JK and I have always stayed in touch - he's my brother-in-law.

 
We install the dock.  The job requires standing waist-deep in cool water as waves splash against you.  We pound pipes into the mud, mount a frame to the pipes, tighten bolts, add decking in the form of pallets.  Nothing about the process has changed since I first helped out as a camper 34 years ago, though the design is begging for an update.  Already I perceive a sense of tradition with JK and Duncan, a desire to keep things as they were. 

"People are always dropping by," JK explains.  "Old campers who remember Hawkeye from the Sixties or even the Thirties.  They're so happy it's still the same."

JK and Duncan have borne the expense, done the hard work, and run the risk of owning this property, but unlike lords of the realm they feel an obligation to everybody who has loved the place - and there are hundreds.  Never an architectural showpiece, it was a funky summer camp - but a very special place built of memories, of youthful rites of passage from first canoe outing to first kiss.  They want it to remain so.  The main building is a big old lodge known as the Blue Heron.

 
A couple hundred feet down the lake from us, Ken Laundry, age 85, is installing his own dock without help from anybody.  He joins us for a beer and a bit of talk.  Ken says his property assessment tripled this year.  Ken has lived by Silver Lake all his life, scratching out a living with strong hands and a strong head.  In winter he used to take horses out on the ice to haul in fresh water.  “And if the horse did his business on the ice, you had to clean it up.  Now nobody seems to care about the lake.”
   
With the dock installed, we make a trip to Aubuchon Hardware in Ausable Forks.  At Aubuchon I see the adult Duncan at work.  He was playful when I knew him in high school, and now he is playfully engaging as he jokes with the hardware clerk, asking questions about wood-preserving techniques, explaining our concerns, acknowledging the clerk's expertise and experience.  The clerk becomes a part of our project and feels he has a stake in the outcome.  Then when Duncan jokingly suggests that for the size of our order, we each deserve a free Aubuchon Hardware painter's cap, the clerk laughingly agrees.  Duncan scores free hats - disposable, emblazoned with the Aubuchon label, but they had prices on them.  I think it all happened by accident.  There's nothing calculating or manipulating about Duncan; with soft self-deprecation he simply charms you.

Since I haven't seen Duncan for 30 years, I can't say how he behaves back home in Minnesota, but I know he runs a serious business, supports his family and is a responsible man.  Here he's simply playful.  JK is equally lighthearted.  In Los Angeles JK is a partner in a law firm handling heavy-duty corporate law.  Here, he's a different person.  He's merry.  The spirit is infectious.

The next day while wearing our free Aubuchon caps we stain the new paneling in the living room with just a blush of red added.  It looks great.  Over the winter Duncan and JK hired a local carpenter to rip out the old dark interior walls, add insulation, and then panel them with knotty pine.  Apparently this was a new step for them, as they'd done most of the fix-up so far by themselves.  They're pleased with the results, and I agree - the carpenter gave them solid work, lovely details, for a low price.  During winter, carpenters around here don't have a lot to do.

Duncan mows the lawn.


I paint a new door.  Swimming in the lake, I come upon a big fish who doesn’t scare easily.  He's twelve inches long, sitting on the bottom chewing his cud.  There are fresh-water mussels down there and masses of tiny fish hiding among bright green weeds.  I feel I've re-entered a lovely secret world.

We drive out along the Ausable River, which is world-famous for fly-fishing.  Next to the river we dine at a restaurant called Rat Face McDougall’s.  Duncan finds the name amusing, since his last name is McDougall.  Down the road from the restaurant we stop at a fly fisher’s shop where they sell a fly called a Rat Face McDougall, recommended for catching trout.  Duncan buys two.

After dinner we visit a neighbor on the lake by the name of Fred who is remodeling an old cabin.  Fred's in a bad mood about his contractor because while Fred was away the man built a massive stone fireplace rising 30 feet from foundation to chimney top - and he built it in the wrong place.

The next day we return to Aubuchon Hardware where another salesman says, "Oh yeah, I heard about you guys," and he allows us to return some unused stain.  What did he hear?  Was Duncan's charm somehow offensive?  Should we offer to pay for the caps which seemed so freely given?  Or did he simply hear about a bunch of nuts from California and Minnesota who don't know beans about preserving wood in the Adirondacks?  We're the summerfolk in a very small town.  They depend on us for a livelihood; we depend on them for service.  Sometimes it's an uneasy relationship.

Across the street I buy groceries and have to wait five minutes to purchase beer, which to my surprise can’t be sold before noon on Sunday.  While I wait, the checkout lady tells me she's local but she left town for a while.   

"Where'd you go?" I ask.

"Oh I lived eleven years in Florida but then it started snowing down there."

"Really?  Snowing in Florida?"

"You bet your butt it snowed.  So I came back here and now you know what?  The winters are so much milder than they used to be.  All that snow must've gone down to Florida."

"Yeah, maybe the planet really is warming up."

"You bet your butt it is.  The snow here isn't nearly as deep as when I was little.  It used to come up to my chin.  Now it doesn't come up so high."

Then she laughs.  She had me.

"Noon," she says, and she rings up my Saranac Ale.

Duncan and JK

As a last act of opening the camp, Duncan and I install the mailbox at the end of the driveway.  Pre-internet, that mailbox is the portal connecting this camp to the rest of the world.  And so it's been for most of a century.

Workfest turns out to be a reunion, a chance to be boys again, a time when work is worked and play is played, a summer camp for grownups.  Or at least for me.  Like a trout, I'm hooked.






(The photo of Duncan mowing, and the photo of Duncan and JK, were taken by David Minard who reserves all rights.)

Religion in Wood: The Shakers, continued

The picture on the cover of Religion in Wood reminds me of a latch in Ken Laundry's barn:

Maybe it isn't fair to compare the latch inside a prosperous house with the latch of a hardscrabble old barn. I wonder if the Shakers put as much care into their barns as they did into their houses. I like the Shaker latch, but I like the simple practicality of the barn latch, too. Both were forged by a blacksmith. They are from the same era. One was built for the purpose it still serves. The other was salvaged, cobbled together. Both are a reflection of the men who made them, men of good values.

Ken Laundry

When we leave this earth,

our spirit fills the places
we leave behind.
The spirit dwells in the small things...
and the large...

(You can click on any photo for a larger view.)

Another Death in the Family

Ken Laundry passed away today at Plattsburgh hospital.

He was just a few days short of his 95th birthday.

He was a man of the mountains and a mountain of a man.

He lived a simple and hardworking life, but anyone who talked to him was impressed by the subtlety and breadth of his mind and the warmth of his humor.

I started writing about Ken here at this link.

A complete collection of my writings about Ken can be found be clicking on the link in the left-hand column of this blog, under "Labels," where it says Ken Laundry (40).

The photo on the right is from the last time I saw Ken.

His spirit fills us all.

Living With Wood

Wood is alive. Even when it's dead. We don't just use it in the way we use concrete or steel. We live with it. We have a relationship. How we live with wood defines to some extent what kind of people we are—our values, our styles. Wood makes certain demands on us, and we have to accommodate wood even as we shape it to our needs—or our nests.

Here we have a small roof over a house entry. Besides the use of milled lumber, a decision was made 40 or 50 years ago to use small cedar poles with the bark still attached. The decision was partly practical: Small cedars grew in abundance around this house, so the supply cost nothing. It was also an aesthetic decision: The rustic style speaks of a tradition and of a love for what's natural.

It's a compromise. Most of the structure is low-grade wood from a sawmill, painted a neutral color so it fades into the background. The rustic elements stand out, though they are of less structural importance. The workmanship is competent. The joints are tight enough, the nails are strong enough. There's nothing flamboyant or high-end or high-ego about it. No notching, no hidden fasteners—just butt joints and rusting nails. A day's work, maybe less.

To me, this is the heart of carpentry. Working to a budget—both of time and of money—working within a tradition and a style, meeting a need, doing a job, nothing fancy—but nothing ugly or shoddy, either. It's a concept the birds understand.

You don't have to build high-end furniture to take pride in your work. You can use power tools and common wood and simple joints. You do the best with what you have—in skill, in tools, in time, in money.

In the days to come, I'll be returning to this topic of living with wood.

Gloves

Because it's cold out there. Just like saw blades and screwdrivers, they're tools, and we need more than one kind. For myself, I usually wear gloves with the fingertips cut off - but then I don't live in the Adirondacks like Ken, the owner of these gloves. (Ken, by the way, just had a pacemaker installed in his chest and is feeling much better - probably out splitting firewood at this moment, at age 94).

When my fingers get cold, I lose all sensation (except constant pain). I dream of a glove that keeps fingers toasty warm, allows me to feel what I'm touching, allows a good grip on a chainsaw or a wire nut, and allows me to pick up a 6d finish nail. And while I'm dreaming, how about one that allows me to touch a live 240 volt wire - or hold a demolition hammer without sending vibrations up my arm? I keep thinking there must be a better design for gloves, and maybe there is. What do you use?

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Cigar Boxes - the Other Tool Chest

Just to keep things in perspective, we don't all need something like Henry Studley's tool chest. Here's how my hero, Ken Laundry, keeps small parts and tools. Ken was 11 years old, already helping to harvest lumber and saw blocks of ice, when Studley died in 1925.

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Log Hook

As you can see from the comment to the previous post, what I (and my mentor, Ken) called a wood hook is commonly called a log hook. Thanks, Joe, for the pointer to Northern Tools where you can buy this baby for $23. Same price as my book, come to think of it, if you order by mail - and you can't use my book to grab and carry logs, so this tool is a much better deal. And unlike my book, a hundred years from now the log hook will still be useful to somebody just as Ken's "wood hook" is still ready for action.

It's interesting to read the comment page provided by Northern. Everybody says it's a great tool except they had to sharpen the point - so why don't they just sell it with a sharper point? It's bigger than it appears in the picture, about 16 inches, and seems rugged - if you accidentally ran over it with your tractor, the tractor would be the loser.

I want one. I shouldn't have one. My log-moving days are pretty much over, and just looking at that thing makes my lower back hurt. When I was younger I owned 40 acres in Mendocino County near the little town of Yorkville. Using downed redwood trees, I chainsaw-milled the lumber for a cabin - which is when I needed that tool. And this one, a log tong:

I had to sell that lovely piece of land when I was hard up for cash. It had meadows, an oak forest, and a lively little creek with a redwood grove. My kids and I had many an adventure there. Wild turkeys ran all over the place. Now it's an estate and a vineyard. (Sigh). I'm a beer guy, myself.


(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Wood Hook

Reminds me of a bird. It's a wood hook and it's probably a hundred years old. As Ken, the owner, explained, it's like an ice hook, only you use it to grab a log and carry it. Does anybody still use them? I can't even find a listing of one for sale anywhere.

This one's seen a lot of use. To me, it's a piece of history and a work of art. But I'm strange that way.

Here's a view of the whole thing:

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Whiffletrees

Also known as whippletrees. You use them with a team of horses. Ken Laundry, the owner, hasn't needed them since he bought his tractor in 1951. During the Great Depression, Ken used to cut blocks of ice from the lake and haul them to local ice houses. He used to plow his fields behind a horse. Now Ken keeps the whiffletrees hanging in his barn, just in case. Which, these days, seems like a good idea.

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Wrenches

Even the most orderly tradesmen seem to end up with a pile of wrenches. So many tools, so little time...

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Stuff

Tucked between rafters is that all-important tool called Stuff. Stuff is too good to throw away. Stuff has many uses though we can't think of one just now. So we keep a bamboo pole, a dowel, threaded rod, flat steel, and the yellow curling pages of a 1956 catalog from Montgomery Ward.

Stuff is what we all know is valuable though it wouldn't fetch a penny at a garage sale.

Stuff is my favorite tool.

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Two Man Saw

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Rope, Chain, Tractor

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Continuing a Theme

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Leopards, Lions, and ... Rope

Rope, sensual and strong. Rope works hard and yet appeals to the eye. Okay, I admit, I'm sort of obsessed with rope and chain and cable. They're tools, just like hammers and screwdrivers. We use them all the time. And when we put them away, they remind me of sleeping felines. Coiled muscle. Power and grace.

I've previously featured rope, chain, and cable here and here and here. There will be more.

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)

Toolbox

Cracked by age, battered by work, recently repaired, creaky but useful - this toolbox is a lot like its owner. Speckled with sawdust, spattered with paint, stained by water - there is a ragged beauty.

The plywood partitions are a recent addition. One fresh nail was added to the end, probably at the same time that the plywood was nailed in the middle. The handle has an elegant curve, though I'm sure its shape was for function, not aesthetics. The saw notches on the handle speak of its use as a sawhorse. The notch where the handle joins the end was nicely cut, then sanded and rounded, as was the handle itself. In contrast, the angled cut on the end piece is rough, slightly wobbly, and never finished.

It's the work of a practical man. A busy man. A man who probably spent a couple of hours, seventy-five years ago, choosing a few strong scraps of wood and creating this portrait of his career building simple, practical things that we use - and use up - without giving a thought.

(Continuing my homage to hardware and hard work. You can click on the photo to make it larger.)