30 Objects in 30 Essays
From the objects that I have made, objects other people have made, objects that I live with, and what they have to say. The products of hands and brains. The obvious differences between things and words. The tangible and intangible rewards of effort. Use and beauty as the two primary qualities of objects, words, hands and brains. For through objects we make the stories of our lives: a life made, a life bought, a life well-used, a life beautiful and useful.
Kris Kristopherson's "Best of All Possible Worlds" was playing when my wife and I walked into Parson's Chicken & Fish. We were exhausted and exhilarated after the move of my shop from Connecticut to Chicago. We celebrated with delicious chicken sandwiches and cold beer.
The moment was perfect, and I came close to tears. Instead, a broad, laughing smile emerged. Indeed, it was the best of all possible worlds. The best of all possible moments. The convergence of a gargantuan effort into a singular completion. Twenty-five years of collected shop equipment and lumber had been winnowed, organized, packed, loaded into a truck, driven 900 miles, unloaded into a new shop, and the truck returned. Thank you Dinah. Thank you Andy, and Mike, and Mike, and Kevin, and Aaron. Thank you 26-foot long uHaul truck. Murphy was AWOL and nothing went wrong.
Though I only met and lived with this truck for three days, it is, and will remain, one of the most significant tools I've used in my life. My workshop became a moveable feast within its 1745 cubic feet of cargo space. At an average speed of 55 mph, all the objects of my 25-year history as a maker floated three feet above the pavements of Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Uprooted, disconnected, and uncertain, the future of 9000lbs of my personal density and self-understanding depended on that truck. Had we, at any time, left the parking brake off while near a ravine, or had the key snatched from my back pocket in a rest stop, it was conceivable to watch my shop trundle off into oblivion. What that meant was hard to fathom. Of course, I am not defined by my tools or my work. And yet without either of them, what and where would my place be? For three days, a big part of my life was nestled uncertainly within a truck.
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The Truck
Dinah and I named her Katy May, and Katy May was a champ. At first we doubted our name choice as potentially discriminatory (we hadn't inquired by what gender the truck wished to be identified), but the name stuck as she continued to prove herself a dignified, excellent and worthy Katy May. At no point did she shirk the task we set before her. She didn't overheat, break down, or whine. This was understandable, as she had only 3900 miles and still smelled of factory vinyl in the cab. At 12 ft. tall and 34 1/2 ft. long, she had ample opportunity to get into mischief with low bridges and sharp corners to hit things, compounded by the addition of the car trailer. But she proved reliable and sensible. She had just one minor sideswipe of a stone wall on her way out of Connecticut, the trailer kicking sideways, perhaps a parting shot to the ashes of the past.
Picking up Katy May up, I ask about the 11 ft. 6in. clearance under a railroad bridge about three blocks away. The two clerks' faces light up.
"Oh yeah. We have a lot of problems with that!" says one with a wry grin. The other's face falls a bit dark.
"Really? Like how often?"
"We lose a truck about 6 times a year. Sometimes just the cargo box, sometimes the truck is totaled. No matter what we say, how much arm waving. People still try to go under. The insurance doesn't cover that, you know. I forget the term."
"Something like lying negligee?" offers the other clerk.
"No, it's liable negligence," the first clerk corrects. She looks up at me. "Your fault. You pay," she notes, handing me the keys.
"Wow. OK. Sure. I'll avoid that bridge. Um, know of any other low ones in the area?"
"Nope."
I took the key and paperwork, and decided to look up as I drove, religiously.
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The Old Shop
A good friend and I had been discussing dog training, specifically a dog's understanding of the command "leave it." With it, my friend was able to get a dog to walk away from anything and everything -- even a ham sandwich already in it's mouth. At the command, the dog would drop the sandwich and act as if the ham sandwich did not exist, or ever had existed. It was miraculous to watch. We considered the usefulness of such a command in our lives.
In one drawer, I had an Exacto knife set given to me when I was 7. The scar on my left index finger, crossing two knuckles, attested to how much I misused that knife as a boy. I had not taken it out of its box since I was 12. All of the spare blades were rusty. Would I ever use it again? Why would I take it to Chicago? Would Isaac or Josephine appreciate inheriting the Exacto knife set that dad cut his left index finger with? I packed it in a box, unable to hear any voice say "Leave It".
A lifetime of collected tools and materials boiled down to a singular funnel of choice: would it fit in the truck? How close to the weight and volume limit would any one object bring me? Katy May's cavernous interior said "LOTS," but I had too much.
It became quickly evident that the biggest weight was emotional. I didn't need a truck. I could sell everything in Connecticut and use the proceeds to buy new in Chicago, saving the truck rental costs. But I just couldn't leave it. I had sawn that flitch in 2002 from a tree on a friend's front lawn. That was my grandfather's spokeshave, stolen from my dad. That was a handplane given to me by a author for helping him prevent an asshole publisher from cheating him. The posters on the wall were from my college days. The list of meaningful items went on and on and on, indicating I had an above average problem with projecting emotional value onto everyday items. Marie Kondo would note that I was "a hard case."
"Tell me to leave it," I asked him. But he refused. Apparently, I was supposed to have more agency than a dog. I had to tell myself to leave it. Sorting everything into Keep, Sell, Giveaway and Toss piles took weeks. Objects moved back and forth from pile to pile. In the end, the hardest part was tossing a bunch of items that had been in other piles, but found no new home. There was no room for them on the truck, and yet I had only found other people who could say "leave it" to themselves more effectively than I.
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The Driving
Katy May and the trailer combined were as wide and nearly as long as a tractor trailer. It was harder to keep her within the lines, harder to change lanes, harder to speed up, harder to slow down, harder to park. On certain pavement, she bounced rhythmically, making our voices sound like a party trick. The trailer required we go a maximum of 55mph, which we did, with cars and trucks passing us at 70-75mph most of the way. White knuckled, we asked ourselves continuous questions. Are we still in our lane? What is about to hit us? What are we about to hit? What clearance is that bridge? Look up!!! Is the engine laboring on this hill? I remain impressed that we were not required to have CDLs, or advised to take Xanax, to rent her.
At gas stops and other moments of calm, Katy May would ask: What will you do when you get there? She'd remind me of what was in her cargo space, of her purpose. Let's just get there first, I'd say, putting another $200 in her tank.
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The Arrival
The uHaul place in Chicago was right off the highway, a blessing from heaven. We dropped off the trailer before taking the truck to the new shop. Making city corner turns with the full rig was not a prospect I had relished. With the truck alone, it would be tricky enough, winding my way through the small local streets, needing to swing wide, with annoyed Chicago drivers dodging around.
As he checked in the trailer, I asked the clerk about low bridges, if any were between us and Ravenswood.
"Low bridges?" he looked at me funny. "None that I know of. Look, if you want to total the truck, lots of people just do it in the lot here. Can't fuckin' tell the difference between drive and reverse, holy shit...."
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The New Shop
Completion of any task is just one step, unprivileged in my opinion, among all the other parts and moments. I love to start jobs, projects, big and small. I love to feel the progress when I'm doing them, and change with them, as they evolve and mature. Completion is satisfying, also unnerving, for it begs the question "what next?" And I have not experienced anything quite as unnerving as the completion of 22 years of shop work in one place. I have also not experienced anything as viscerally satisfying as completing this shop move.
The concept of "perfect" is terminal. Any change can only be for the worse, as there is no "more perfect." To preserve perfection requires, essentially, the death of the object, for a living thing is constantly changing. I don't like to think of anything as perfect until I am done with it, in the sense of burying it. Completion is death, a departure from the present. It can only remembered.
Transient moments can be enjoyably perfect. One such was walking into Parson's. They are born and die in a few seconds. That overwhelming feeling of gratitude and joy, a blanket of stress falling to the floor, the realization that the work is done. These moments are singular, And not a thought to the future. The New Shop Will Be. It is not now.
Thank you Katy May for getting us to the verge of the uncertain future, safe and sound.
...
The Definition of Gratitude
Driving back home from Parson's, sitting at a stoplight in what felt like our truly tiny Honda CRV, I looked up to see a tiny, inconspicuous sign. It was next to about four other signs indicating which way to turn to various local attractions. The tiny, inconspicuous sign read "11' 6" CLEARANCE". Just above it were the power wires to the stoplights, crisscrossing the entire intersection.
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