A Fine Tool: The Wooden Pencil
We love tools. Shiny tools. Sharp tools. Tools that spin at incomprehensible speeds. Tools that make loud noises and produce copious amounts of sawdust. Tools of exotic origins and precision manufacture. Tools of such efficient beauty that we can’t help but to display them on the walls of our workshops. But it’s a special kind of love we reserve for the wooden pencil.
A highly specialized tool, the wooden pencil is useful for not much more than markmaking. Sure, we’ve used those fancy mechanical jobs. The ones made of stainless steel with the little cap you must remove to expose the fragile, almost dainty, eraser. The ones that require graphite purchased in metric increments at the art supply store. But they always feel a little too overwrought. They’re tiny scratches ill-suited for the simple task of sketching out how to rip a sheet of plywood, or marking the wall studs so you could hang that pot rack in the kitchen.
Our relationship with the humble wooden pencil is one built on trust. We always know what we’re getting when we reach for our Ticonderoga. In fact we keep them close at hand, and close to our heart, literally. We consistently have a pencil or two jammed in the breast pocket of our shop apron. And if for some reason we don’t find one there, we know one can’t be too far off. The little wooden devils travel in packs like lemmings, quietly awaiting their summons to assist with long division or some other menial task.
A better workhorse we couldn’t find. Especially those stout, flat carpenter’s pencils. They stubbornly sit on their work surface refusing to move and require sharpening with a razor blade, as if they find the battered metal pencil sharpener on the wall too ‘stuffy.’
We drop them, kick them, throw them, put them in our mouth and bite them, and yet the wooden pencil soldiers on with nary a complaint. Content to stand at attention in the mason jar on our workbench and in our breast and hip pockets ready for whatever we throw them at.
A fine tool: the spinner
In our ongoing hunt for the finest tools we’ve profiled a brooks range finder, an Atha hammer, a fillet knife, and a level: each of whom is built as a stand-alone device, self-contained and ready to be wielded as they are, at a moment’s notice. The spinner (seen above) is a small, but useful gadget, part of a much larger and complex puzzle. This spinner comes from my father’s pre-1970 David Brown tractor that he’s had since before I was born (1972).
At first glance the spinner is just a wooden knob attached to the steering wheel, but I can assure you it greatly simplifies the often elaborate operation of a powerful machine by allowing the operator to use one hand (instead of two). It gives much added leverage when navigating tight corners, and relief on the long stretches of field when both hands can be taken off the wheel. All that torque, horsepower, all the moving parts, the diesel fuel, the power take-off, the hydraulics: at the end of the day it can all be channeled through a small piece of wood that rests comfortably in the palm of your hand.
This spinner speaks incalculable volumes. It’s easy to imagine the thousands of hours and miles clocked in the field, with a hand on spinner. This tool has been ground down from over 40 years of sweat and hard work into a polished instrument that is unlike any other in the world. My parents have been talking about selling the farm lately and when that day comes I will insure that one tractor will be missing a steering wheel, with a small - but valuable - piece of wood attached. - Peter Buchanan-Smith
A Fine Tool: The Level
The level does not measure quantity, rather it measures quality. It does not ask how far an object is in relation to another, nor does it ask for the size of an object in arbitrary units. What the level really measures is perfection. It asks for the ideal plane. Perfectly flat. Perfectly level. Of course there is not much in this world that can live up to the level’s expectation of perfection. So we set about fixing these things. Making them as perfect as they can be in hopes of satisfying the level, because if the level is satisfied we are satisfied. The level is not just a tool, it is judge and jury, and we are the executioners.
Checking the judgement and honesty of any level is quite simple. Many methods may be used, but we feel this one is one of the more accurate ones.
First place your level horizontally on a wall or any flat surface you don’t mind writing on with the bubbles facing you. Carefully adjust the level until the the horizontal bubbles read that it is perfectly level. Next make a few small marks on the wall along the length of the level. Now flip your level over along it’s long axis and align it to the marks you just made on the wall. If the bubble still reads level you know that it is still in good working condition. Repeat these steps with your level vertically to check it’s vertical accuracy as well.
If you discover that your level is no longer true, retire it with a small ceremony and place it in a position of prominence in your workshop to honor all the work it has done. We recommend marking any tools you retire by either writing ‘Retired’ and the date directly on the tool, or with some other easily identifiable and highly visible mark to show that it is no longer in service. There’s not much more frustrating than using a tool you thought was fit for service only to discover through it’s failure it was not suitable at all.
A FINE TOOL: The fillet knife, by Nick Zdon
The fillet knife has always held a special place in my heart as one of the sharpest and most specialized knives. The efficiency of the knife requires a delicate balance between toughness and flexibility. The need for a specialized knife for preparing fish probably arose from the fact that so much effort is expended by going out to sea, catching the fish, and bringing them back to dry land, that to lose even an ounce of flesh to an inefficient blade was unacceptable. Even today it can be a sad end to the day when you’ve spent many hours on the water, and reeled in some nice looking fish, only to have it all wasted by mangling the fillets into tiny, and inedible bloody pieces.
Using a fillet knife is a unique experience in yielding conviction. The thinness of the blade allows not only for delicacy, but also for dialogue. It cannot simply be thrust into the flesh and expected to accomplish the fisherman’s will. It is literally where the fish and the fisherman meet. It is not a knife for sawing or hacking. It is a conduit. The fisherman must listen to how the knife responds to the fish and adjust accordingly. It is a process that cannot be rushed, much like fishing itself.
For your sake, and the sake of the fish, learning to use a fillet knife is best begun by watching someone already skilled with the knife. Don’t mistake their speedy skillful movements for carelessness. Ask them to slow down and describe what they are doing at every step. You’ll find it’s not terribly complicated. When you are ready to fillet your first fish, approach it confidently but not brazenly, and you’ll have already learned the most important lesson.
The Japanese have a knife used in the preparation of sashimi called the Yanagi Ba, which translates literally as “willow blade.” It is an apt description of the qualities found in a good fillet knife. Willow branches yield in slow graceful movements, pushing and being pushed by the wind. The ancient Samurai thought that rock garden meditation could improve swordsmanship. Perhaps the modern day fisherman could benefit from some quiet time beneath the willow before setting to work with his fillet knife.
A FINE TOOL: The Atha Hammer, by John Giovanni Meola
To a tool collector, this is pretty much the icon of hammer collecting: the Atha small sledge hammer- 6 lb, cross peen pattern. This hammer would have been used to coax a coal scuttle or ash cleanout door open on a steam locomotive, or maybe align a saw buck or straighten the tooth on a re-saw. The cross peen is widely acknowledged as the most useful general purpose hammer, favored by blacksmiths and metalworking trades. In addition to the versatility afforded by the cross peen section, this pattern has a unique weight distribution. The hammer dates to the 1920’s or 30’s. Atha was purchased by Stanley Tools and eventually the name was changed. Dating the hammers is done by the logo and also the chamfer pattern.
This hammer head was retreived as a ‘found object’. It must have been standing on a damp floor for a long time- the crown surface was heavily corroded. As testimony to the quality of the forged steel they used back then, it cleaned up pretty well with minimal loss of profile. The handle was fitted by me and was made in Roanoke County, VA in the 1970’s on a duplicating machine using a classic slender neck pattern. This design was favored because it minimized rebound shock into the handle. Paint applied was two coats of primer, one coat of International Harvester Red Enamel. A hammer of this weight and pattern would have been widely used - in factories, saw mills, paper mills, steam boiler and engine rooms, general steel fabricating and construction.
Tools of My Father: by Alex and Lulu Kalman
(with illustrations by Maira Kalman)
Lulu:
I have hazy memories of grilled chicken legs and zucchini and Hungarian sausages cooking on a kettle grill upstate.
And I have hazy memories of strawberry ice cream from a hand crank machine that we all got to take turns with.
But I have a clear memory of veal shoulder. From a recipe by Marcella Hazan. A galley kitchen. A stained t -shirt. A New York view. A bread crumb crust. Oil splashed forearms. Pink framed eye glasses. My father.
And this hammered casserole. It’s called a Majestic. We have had it forever and I’ve braised in it occasionally over the years that I’ve been cooking. The pot now lives on top of the kitchen cabinets above the stove in the apartment that my mother still lives in. Where my father lived when he died.
I consider the pot his, still and always. And when I look at this pot, or I hoist it down from its perch, I think of him at this one moment in time. A moment so terrifying. So passionate. I stood pinned to the far end of our long kitchen. My father stood over this pot, his hands, deep into it, gently wrapped around a veal roast—trying to turn it to get the crust just so. I remember him lifting it—barehanded—hot, oiled—I was awed. The roast peeped over the edge of the pot, turned cooperatively in my fathers hands, and then dropped. The crust broke. My father cursed maybe. Shouted out. I was 8.
And 8 years later he was gone.
And the pot is still there and when I look at it I think of him.
Of his love.
And of the food he loved to make for us.
Alex:
I remember my dad sitting hunched over a table with a pencil in his hand. He always had a pencil on him; in his hand, in his pocket, behind his ear, or sometimes, between his teeth. He believed there are no restrictions or rules when it comes to a pencil. It is the starting point, the part of the project or the idea that could go in any direction.
He preferred pencils to computers because at that time computers could only draw straight lines (which he thought were boring). A crooked line, made by hand was much more interesting. It is also easy to make mistakes with the pencil, and what could be better? He believed that the best ideas came from mistakes.
When you use a pencil - your brain is very connected to your hand which is connected to the pencil which is making the line on the paper. So your brain is very close to the illustration of its thoughts. With a pencil you can sketch, write and doodle freely. Tibor would fill dozens and dozens of pages at a time with ideas. They were ideas that would lead him to other ideas, that would lead him to questions, to jokes-and eventually-sometimes-maybe-hopefully-to a great idea.
Lulu Kalman was born New York City. In August. To parents who enjoyed food and art. She has lived in Rome and Tel Aviv. After studying literature she attended the French Culinary Institute in NYC. Currently she is a chef for Danny Meyer’s Union Square Events.
Alex Kalman was born and lives in New York City and is the founder of Red Bucket Films and My Block NYC.
Tools of My Father’s Father: by Patrick Weldon
Christmas 1976. When I was five my grandpa made my brother, cousin and I, our first tool boxes. The hammer, sockets, screwdrivers and wrenches were basic tools, but the wooden box that housed them was the real gift. Each one had our name hand-lettered on it and the year. The boxes were huge. I could easily fit inside it, and did.
Originally from Sweden, he was a master carpenter and after moving from North Dakota, they purchased 3 acres of land in Portland that had nothing but a chicken coop on it. He built the house that my mom grew up in, that still stands today.
My most vivid memories of him are when he’d come after work, reeking like freshly cut wood and cigarettes. He’d pull his black boots off and sawdust would shake out everywhere like fake snow. He’d unbutton his worn and torn Ben Davis shirt and place it on the hook near the back door, the “Union Made” monkey smiling at me. I distinctly remember his workshop: everything had its place. He had drawn silhouettes of every tool on the pegboard, so easily identifiable that, even as a child, I could have put each tool back in it’s place.
Looking at it today I see the detail he put into the box: piano hinge hardware, stained wood, finished edges. I sometimes like to open it up and just smell it. It reminds me of the of his old sweat stained and sawdusted hickory shirt.
He taught me the importance of using the right tool for the right job. Respect your tools. They’ll last you a lifetime, and then some.
Native Oregonian, Patrick Weldon works for a large law firm in Portland as the Facilities/Operations supervisor. When he’s not wearing his corporate tool belt, he enjoys riding his bikes with family, exploring Portland’s many craft breweries, riding motorcycles and chopping wood with his trusted companion, Famous Green.
Tools of My Father: by Kim Rilleau
My father was a fiercely creative, free-thinking individual from the North coast of France. He moved with his mother and siblings to New York after World War I. Though his artistic talents were considerable he also posessed an extremely sharp scientific bent and worked in the early days of radio developing vacuum tubes at Fairchild Aviation experimenting with sophisticated plywoods for use on aircraft. He moved to Provincetown, Massachusetts in the 30s where he began exploring leather as a new medium, creating dazzling pieces of functional leather art with my Mother. I was born in 1950 and learned what has become the family trade: hand-made leather work.
This is a picture of my father’s nailing bench. As a tool it has served the shop well since before I was born. Although many, many of the tools that I use on a daily basis were my father’s, I chose this one because it is a station of creative concentration and an expression of his borderless imagination. This bench had once been a piano, a baby grand I think. It had fallen into a dysfunctional state by the previous owner and deemed un-reclaimable as an instrument. With his typically out-of-box vision my father saw — not a broken piano — but an extremely stable, impressively solid, perfectly sized, and superbly crafted workbench where he could set his anvil and comfortably nail his beautiful leather sandals. Reverently he set to work dismantleing the instrument and like an indiginous hunter he used all the components of this stately beast. He removed the beautifully wound and incredibly strong piano strings, coiled and stored them in the rafters for future use. All the ivory and ebony from the keys were set aside for projects as yet unknown, and the massive bronze (was it really bronze?) soundboard hung for years as detritus / art on the wall of the shop. After all this careful dissection there stood the nailing bench.
It is too short a space here to fully express why this bench, and the many other components of the shop, reveal the often tumultuous relationship with my father. Maybe it was the many long hours that I saw as a young child: him at work with his careful focus, hammer in hand at this powerful and graceful station. How can I forget those early days sitting on the stool, hammer in my wobbly hand, trying to emulate his steady strike? Our relationship consisted of deep, deep unconditional love and support on his part, and often typical teeneage surliness and aloofness on mine. There was a lot of storminess on the surface but thankfully that was counterbalanced by a deep ballast of unspoken love on both our parts. There have been many occasions when I dropped my head in regret for the lost opportunities to have shown him thanks for the painful sacrifices he made on my behalf. It wasn’t until I began rearing my own four children that I came to understand what all that must have entailed for him. He died in 1977 when I was 27 years old. I miss him still.
Kim Rilleau was born in Truro, Massachusetts in 1950 and moved to the neighboring ville of Provincetown when he was six months old. His parents were talented artists who found themselves in the New York/Provincetown art scene and began working in leather, finally settling on the Cape where they opened the Rilleau leather shop. As the first-born son he was raised in the leather trade and continues the tradition to this day, sometimes with the help of his son Ty. He and his wife Lynne have four children: two daughters Ember and Elena and two sons Guy and Ty. In 1997 he moved the family from Provincetown to Woodstock, Vermont where he proudly continues the Rilleau Leather tradition. Kim is also trained as a movement coach and myo-fascial therapist which came in handy with his design of the Best Made axe sling.
Tools of My Father: by Sheena Lara
My dad was a small town guy who worked at the local post office, but his passion was inventing. As a side job back in the 1970’s, he would mow the town cemetery and this is where the idea for The Wheelie Trimmer was born. Frustrated with having to carry a weed whacker around every tombstone, the idea of putting it on wheels came to him. He designed and built every Wheelie Trimmer by hand in his workshop up the hill from our house. There, he had every tool needed to manufacture them: drill presses, welding equipment, etc. To sell the trimmers, he took it cross county to various conventions and peddled them to churches with adjoining cemeteries. It was at one such church in San Diego, California, that he met my mother. They kept in touch via phone and mail and dad visited her several times. Eventually they married and had two girls, I am the younger.
Over time, Green Manufacturing, Inc (the name of his business) couldn’t keep up with production and my dad moved on. It’s been four years since my dad passed and we’ve left the workshop exactly as it was. A recent peek through a window revealed a United States map with pins in every town with a Wheelie Trimmer and an article titled, “Are You Destined to Make Millions?” on the office wall.
Even though the Wheelie Trimmer was his main invention, he had at least four other products he manufactured: the “Mr. Wood Lifter,” the “EZ Slide Probe,” the “Miller’s Memorial Lifter” and “Rotory-Bar-Mowers.” One of my favorite memories is of him constantly sketching ideas for inventions at the kitchen table. He would call me over and show me schematics scrawled out on napkins and scratch pieces of paper. He would ask if I thought it would work and expecting some sort of response, I gave him the most thoughtful suggestions a child could. Those conversations usually ended with a shake of the head and, “I don’t know Sheena Bean, I think it could make some money.”
Well, dad never made millions, but following his dream led him to my mom and of course my sister and myself. My first invention will be dedicated to him.
Sheena Lara works for her alma mater, Iowa State University, as a graphic designer. The creative apple did not fall far from the tree. As a child she built a tree house and go-kart with her friends using tools and supplies from her dad’s shop. As an adult she has built prototypes of her own inventions. She has an affinity for the outdoors and social media. Sheena is a regular contributor to the world of Best Made.
