Years ago, I worked alongside an old man in the basement of an old house, on furniture. I would take it apart, and he would put it back together. You had to watch out for pipes in the ceiling or you’d hit your head, but the old man was short so he didn’t need to worry. He would joke all day, until the afternoon when he realized he was behind on his tasks, and then work quietly and furiously until closing time.
I remember the sound, a kind of a quork, that the pliers would make as I pried staples out of hard wood. Ripping chairs and sofas apart, you had to be careful not to damage the finer elements of a piece. It was important to decide where to get leverage with the pliers. The old man had various tricks for doing this well, which he often claimed he had patented (one of his recurring jokes).
I remember the feeling of the metal tacks in my mouth. The old man taught me how to pour a bunch in like sunflower seeds, and bring out one at a time with my tongue. This is when I started helping him put the furniture back together. We would use tacks to hold webbing in place, the supportive fabric inside some chairs and sofas. It was nice to finish the webbing on a sofa and then take a nap on it. The business shut down each day for a nap. The old man would sometimes sleep across three dining room chairs.
Craft is human, and real, and you can feel it every day if you pay attention.
