October 28, 2010--Midcoast: Old Wood

On gray days such as this, with a chill in the air that foreshadows late autumn; with the World Series about to begin but with neither the Red Sox nor Yankees participating (in these parts the one to root for; the other to hate); with the election less than a week away and no one inclined to discuss it (some already in preemptive mourning; others feeling they are about to get their country back), what’s better to talk about than wood.

Actually, John’s redwood. Fifty-year-old redwood that he is rescuing from an old picnic table and plans to recycle. “Made up of real two-by-fours,” he proudly said. “Not the stuff they sell you these days that’s really three-and-a-half by one-and-less-than-three-quarters. Everything’s adulterated.”

Ken nodded. He knows his wood. From the past and now. In fact, he has his own small sawmill that he used the other day to cut some twelve-by-one planks that he is hoping his son can find a use for. “I was getting tired of all those logs sittin’ around cluttering up the barn.”

“And take a look at these nails,” John said, holding one up in the light so we could get a better look at its slender silhouette. “Notice the nail head. How thin it is.” We all leaned close so we could get a good look. “So thin,” John with admiration said, “that it was flush with the planks. It wasn’t easy to be sure where all the nails were they were so flush. I don’t want to ruin the blade on the plane when I take off the old finish. Though why anyone would put very much on redwood I wouldn’t know.”

“These look like handmade nails to me,” Ken said. He had one and, also holding it up, rolled it in his fingers. “Not galvanized either,” he noticed. “No need to do that, I’spose. Not much likelihood that you’d need to galvanize them when you’re using redwood.”

“And take a look at this,” John said agreeing, “I brought a small piece to show you. From one of the braces where the legs crossed in an X-shape.”

He passed the block of wood around. I noticed the annual rings etched on one side. “I wonder how old the tree was before they cut it down,” I mused. “Did you ever see one of these huge redwood tree cross-sections that they cut into slices and put on display in natural history museums? The ones where they affix little signs from the core of the tree all the way to the outer edge? Close to the center they have this sign that shows the year the Great Pyramids of Egypt were built, then a little further out the year that Jesus was born, and then the Magna Carta, 1492 when Columbus discovered America, and the American Revolution. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Everyone nodded. “And take a look at the annual rings,” Ken said, “See how they don’t curve very much? That tells me this piece was milled quite a distance from the center. Maybe from the time of the Gettysburg Address,” he added with a big wink.

“What I need to do now,” John said, “is plane all the planks down so that they are cleaned up and all the same thickness. We plan to make a table for the kitchen out of them and it should look and feel all even and nicely finished. You see, just to test the wood and to discover what it really looks like under all this paint, or whatever, I used a simple hand plane on this edge.”

He passed the trapezoid-shaped piece around again so we could get a closer look. Ken ran his finger over the planed side. Rona wet it with some water from her glass to enhance its color.

“Beautiful wood,” John said. “Should last forever, though to think about them cutting down those extraordinary trees to make picnic tables, well I don’t know.”

“At least some of them have been preserved,” I said.

“It’s a living, I suppose,” Ken said a bit ruefully. “But still.” His voice trailed off.

“Here’s my suggestion for you,” Ken said to John. They were sitting side-by-side at the diner’s counter. It was clear John had intentionally sat by him to get any suggestions Ken might be willing to offer. “Bring the wood ‘round to my place where I have a milling machine with a six-inch blade. We can get the job done right there.”

“But if I missed any nail heads I’d be concerned that we’d ruin your blade,” John said.

“Then here’s what you can do,” Ken offered, “You have a belt sander, don’t you?” John indicated that he did. “Well, run it over the planks and if there are any heads left below the surface you’ll pretty quickly find them with the sander. Worst that can happen you’ll tear up some sandpaper. But that’ll take care of my blade.” He smiled at John.

“That’s mighty kind of you, Ken. I’ll do what you say and let you know how I do. But you’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“Naw. I’ve got the time these days and this sounds like a project I could enjoy. Speaking of wood,” he moved to shift the subject, “you know my son-in-law who’s the archeologist?” We did know that. He works on projects in Maine to help chart the state’s early history. “Well the other day he was working nearby, along the Sheepscot River, up by the dam.”

“Head Tide,” Rona said, proud to show a little of her knowledge of local geography.

“That’s the place,” Ken said, clearly pleased because he as well as John have been among her tutors and guides for all things local. “And since you know where I talking about, south of the dam, did you ever notice that string of rocks that juts out into the river and looks a bit like a breakwater?”

“I never noticed that,” Rona said. “But if you tell me exactly . . .”

“I’ll bring in a map tomorrow to show you just where,” Ken said paternally, clearly enjoying Rona’s interest in learning as much as possible about the area. “But it is a strange structure, that breakwater, I mean, because the water doesn’t break there. The river’s tidal until the dam, but the tide is very gentle that far up stream. So as I think I said my son-in-law has been fascinated by this as well. Makes no sense to him either. Why would anyone from the past have gone to all that trouble to move those boulders out into the river?

“So recently he’s been working there. First thing, he discovered was that at the end of that line of stones, below the surface even at low tide, there’s another string of big rocks that go off at a right angle, making a sort of L-shape.”

“That is fascinating,” John said, “What could it have been about?”

“That’s just what he aims to find out. And so just the other day, while digging down into the mud inside this L-shaped space, and hard work it was in that thick mud, which they could of made bricks from, he uncovers this perfect log. A real old one from the looks of it. Not quite like those redwoods, but old enough. And by perfect I mean perfectly trimmed and straight as can be. Nothing like it, he is sure, could have happened by chance. Some one, or some ones worked that log to get it into this kind of condition. Maybe they did some boat building here, my son-in-law is thinking. But there is no evidence of any shipbuilding happening in this area at any time in the past. So it is a mystery.”

Ken paused to allow the mystery to settle in among us.

“But he must have a hypothesis,” Rona said.

“He really doesn’t. That’s part of what’s interesting about this. He’s very experienced and knows a great deal about the Indians from this area and the early European settlers. There were lots of Dutch there in the early days but they were mainly farmers. So he’s stumped.”

“So what’s the plan?” John asked.

“He wants to cut a piece off the log and send it to the University of Maine. They have some kind of department, my son-in-law says, that might be able to analyze it to see how long ago I was worked on and such.”

“Maybe through carbon dating?” I suggested. “Though I don’t know how that would work.” In truth, I know very little about the science of carbon dating.

“Maybe that,” Ken said. “But in the meantime I went to the spot with him a couple of days ago and with one of my special saws cut off a foot-long section. He said it was OK to do this. It was about this big around.” To illustrate Ken made a circle out of his arms with about a two-foot diameter.

“My,” Rona said, “considering where it was located, down in the mud and all, it looks as if it was quite a job to cut off a piece.”

Ken chuckled as he is inclined to do when making light of something, including difficult things. But nothing really is difficult to him. What for others would be daunting, for him is at most a challenge. He carefully thinks things through and then does what’s necessary to get the job done.

“He was concerned about sending it off to the university, thinking it might get lost so I suggested we cut it in half, send one half to them and keep the other one. To tell you the truth I’m not unhappy about having a piece of it.”

“And so, you are going to do that?” Rona asked.

“Not ‘do’ but ‘did,’” Ken said, smiling broadly.

“Then?” John asked.

“Then, since I feel sure what we sent will get to them, maybe we’ll be able to keep the other half. In fact, maybe, if you’d like, I’ll bring it in tomorrow. I cut it using one of my band saws and that produced a smooth surface. It’s quite beautiful. It looks like it’s petrified from all those years under water and in the mud.”

“That would be great,” I said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I agree,” John said. “Than in addition we won’t have to talk about the Texas Rangers or the Giants or for that matter Sharron Angle or Glenn Beck.”

“Or, for that matter,” I said, in part to indicate I’m paying attention to local politics, “we can also ignore Ralph LaPage.”

“Paul LaPage,” Ron corrected me. "Paul," he said, again with a wink and a smile.