I wanted, so desperately, to add a little wooden coop to the toy line-up. However, not having wood-crafting skills left me on the unfamiliar side of seeking out custom work. But, I had a plan and a picture in my head of what I wanted, so I set about finding a craftsman willing to take on the job.
Sound easy enough? I thought so too. But that was before I'd met an Amish woodworker.
It was such and adventure and I'd love to take you along. Because everyone should meet an Amish wood worker at least once in their life.
You'll want to grab a cuppa because this will get wordy. I wanted to embellish this story with pictures of farmsteads, wood shops and hands at work, but photos and cameras are about as welcome on an Amish homestead as a sharp stick in the eye. So, I'll be putting my best story telling skills to work.
The vision; A simple pine chicken coop, scaled to fit my hand-sewn chickens.
The Stage; Southern Minnesota, where the hills roll gently and horses share the roads with Deere. John Deere.
Last summer, after getting handed my ass on my first day of work as an intern at the raw milk dairy farm, my farmer, Craig, took pity on me for my second day of work. Or maybe it was actually Vicki (the farm's first lady) that took pity on me. All I remember is her yelling "don't forget to get the eggs and butter!" just before she disappeared into the house. Craig cackled out "Ya might want to bring your wallet for this one" as he headed for the truck.
Ever obedient, I grabbed my purse, jumped in the truck and road shotgun while Craig tore up the gravel roads on the skirts of tiny towns with names like Mabel, Canton and Harmony. We were in search of eggs and hand-churned butter.
We stopped at half a dozen places and every plae looked the same; Gravel drive, mailbox and a modest white sign with black lettering that read "open."
That simple word "open" meant it was an Amish Farmstead and they had a public shop where the treasures were either home-grown or hand-made; butter, eggs, leather workings, wood crafts, hand-sewn quilts and furniture. furniture.
Those furnishings. Hand turned, precision cuts, mitered, and routered to perfection. Perfection without electricity. The hook was set and I was envisioning miniature chicken coops before the day was done.
Several weeks later, with a rough sketch in hand, I went back to that furniture maker's home. He looked at my drawing and said he doesn't make bird houses. I tried not to be insulted. Not that he wouldn't take on the work, but because he thought I wanted a bird house.
He was kind enough to point me down the road to another white sign that may be more inclined to do the work.
That's where I met Reuben. He was reluctant. He told me he was busy and he wasn't sure that he could find the time to build a birdhouse for me. Again, with the birdhouse! Before he had a chance to completely turn me down, I told him that I didn't want just one, I'd want 10. Still scratching his beard and shaking his head, I told him I'd be paying generously for the pattern drafting of the birdhouse (good grief, they had me calling them bird-houses now) because that's where the bulk of the time would be spent.
For the first time we made real eye-contact. There was now a foundation of understanding. We both knew the precious time needed to design something new. Large or small, simple or involved, time is valuable. invaluable.
"Ok," he said.
Whew. Progress.
I tried not to press. I mean here I was, in my little red jetta, still wearing flip flops and completely unversed in the cultural rules of the Amish-English business relationships. But I did ask how much time he'd need to draft up a coop for a preview.
"A month?" I offered.
"No."
"Two weeks?" I split.
Suddenly I was standing with Bob Parker on the Price as Right; Too high, too low. would I overbid and lose the showcase showdown?
*silence*
*more silence*
"Hmm, that might be too soon," he muttered.
"Three weeks?" Where else was there to go?
"Ok." he said nodding approvingly.
We marked the calendar and I was off. He went back into his shop and I headed to my car, which was now blocked in by a horse drawn wagon. I did a 21 point back up and squeezed out of the drive without spooking any horses or going in to ask someone to move their....wagon.
Twenty one days later, I returned.
'Is it ready?" I hesitantly asked.You can sort of tell that odd smile that says 'oh yeah, I forgot all about you.' and Rueben had that smile.
"No."
"How much more time would you like?"
"Well, I should really get this done this week."
"Should I come back in 7 days?"
This is where we went through every day of the week and I learned exactly why my project wasn't finished. There were better and more fun things to do. Like livestock auctions and farmer's markets. I couldn't or wouldn't blame him, they did sound far more appealing.
We agreed that I'd return a week later and I did.
It was worth the wait.
I gasped. I really did.
Here's the thing. Besides the roof line and the wood choice, it was nothing like I had envisioned. Nothing. It was 4 times the size I had in my head. It was more barn-like than coop-like. The wood choice was thicker than I imagined and the feet weren't what I imagined either.
But I loved it. Instantly. It was more beautiful by his hands than in my head and that is exactly what art is all about.
I asked if he was up for more? yes. maybe. Well, there are some boys that he'd turn the project over to, but he had a solid pattern and it would be done.
When?
15 minutes and at least a dozen glances at the calendar later and he decided November 1st would be ok.
I went back several days after that and found he wasn't home. Not to be discouraged, I'd stop again in a week or so. You see, he's a good 40 minutes away, there's no phone and I forgot to get his address, even though I'd left mine. So I couldn't mail him a note. All of that is delightfully ok, I love the drive.
Two days later and I recieved a letter from a young man named Menno. His correspondance advised me that he'd been given the project from Reuben, that the project was complete, he needed more of that waxy stuff and directions to his home.
I promptly mailed more beeswax polish and a note letting him know that I'd be there in about a week.
Two days later I rcv'd post back that he'd be at a wedding out of state, 10 days would be better.
Menno lives at his wife's family compound. They have a small cabin on the fringe of the homestead and when Menno and his wife, Mary, opened their home to me, to retrieve the bird houses (yes, that's what we were still calling them) I had no where to step, except directly on that beautifully handsewn rug. But I dropped my shoes like hot potatoes and she said "no no no, please, you don't have to take them off."
Oh yes, I do! And I hope I didn't break any rules by doing so, or gushing over sweet 3 month old Moses balancing on her hip, or by standing near that wood stove radiating pure heaven.
I also met Danny, Mary's curious younger brother who was wearing sopping wet gloves when he shook my hand, and toting his handmade bow and branch.
I learned that Menno married into a family of leather workers and wood working was his desired profession. He pointed towards his wood shop to tell me that was where he'd made the coops and I'm still not sure if that was an invitation to see his workshop or just a declaration.
So here they are...all six of them...the earliest work of a future master craftsman.
Every single one is unique. No two are exactly alike.
These were a learning curve for Menno. Practice on his precision cuts....
A blemish here, deviation from the pattern there....
and some finer cuts than even his mentor had accomplished on the original.
This young man has a real future and enthusiasm for wood working. He asked me for the recipe for "that waxy stuff" and I promised to send it along and then I asked if he'd be interested in more work. It was a resounding "yes."
I'm honored to be a part of his tender beginnings and hope that you will be too.
