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Things Men Have Made by D.H. Lawrence Things men have made with wakened hands, and put soft life into are awake through years with transferred touch, and go on glowing for long years. And for this reason, some old things are lovely |
The wood rod was deep amber with burgundy wraps. A three piece rod, its ferrules mottled with a metallic rime that flaked away beneath my fingernail. The deep forest-green backing was like a heavy cotton thread.
Picture (C) Robin Rhyne
I can’t remember now if it was bamboo or just wood. I was 14 and playing around in the abandoned garage/shed at the back of the house we rented. On a high, deep shelf was the rod. I took it down and balanced it in my hands. I fished, but knew nothing of fly fishing, yet this rod had a feel to it.
Thirty years later I wonder what became of it. When I close my eyes and think of this rod, I dare not trust my memories, for I find myself thinking there was something to it, a spark in which someone “put soft life into” it. It is this that draws me to thoughts of owning a bamboo rod—not the so-called “status” of it, but rather the “transferred touch” put into it by the maker.
Sitting near me as I write is a fly tying chest, leaning more toward honey than amber. Brass handles and hinges. In the old house I used to own there was a shed, I think an old chicken coop. A large shelf, about seven feet in depth, spanned the shed’s width. I tore down the shed to make a woodshop on its foundation. I salvaged the shelf, which turned out to be four inch wide Douglas fir tongue-and-groove flooring. It was old growth fir—its growth rings packed tightly together.
I saw a fancy toolbox in a catalog. I was tempted to buy it for my fly tying paraphernalia, but it was nearly $200. When my shop was erected I needed a project to christen it. I thought of the salvaged fir and the tool chest.
I took my time, planing the 7/8″ thick tongue-and-groove to 1/2″ stock—something more delicate for the design I was planning (I had no plans and made much of it up on-the-fly). I ripped it down to 2 5/8″ widths and spent hours gingerly crosscutting to length this species so prone to splintering. In time the box took shape.
I often wonder where it will be in 100 years. Who will have it? Will it be “warm still with the life of [this] forgotten” maker?
Whatever Man Makes*
by DH Lawrence
Whatever man makes and makes it live
lives because of the life put into it.
*first strophe only
Nice story Scott. I have an old secretary desk that belonged to my grandfather that I use for storing some of my fly tying stuff and I sometimes wonder where it will end up.
What I did was type up a bit of history on it and taped it to the bottom of one of the drawers hoping that if it ever does get out of the family, someone will someday find that history and appreciate where it came from.
Looking forward to your next post.
Have a Merry Christmas out there.
Hi Harry! Thanks for the comment. I have a handful of things I’ve made and plan on leaving a little note like that for the ones I’m most concerned about: the fly tying box, a bookshelf for my son out of the same wood and a chair for my mother. I have a couple of items here in my study (an old trunk and arts and crafts rocking chair) that belonged to my great grandfather. Although he didn’t make them, I love being able to think about those who have used them and the stories that are imbued in them.
that’s awesome. great work, I’ve been wanting something similar but haven’t seen anything I can afford… maybe I should make it! brilliant.
Brian, thanks for taking a look. It was pretty fun to make, and I really tried to put some of “me” into it. At the time I wished I had some plans, but now I’m glad I didn’t. It’s a pretty heavy/big beast, so not really practical for taking on the road. Although it is definitely usable and portable enough to take to somebody else’s house to work on your tying.
Nice work on the heirloom chest. Gramps had an old Heddon flyrod with a Martin automatic reel. He had switched to glass and kept the old cane rod in the pantry. I snuck it out one afternoon after school (2nd grade) and broke it through the butt trying to hoist a buffalo fish (carp-like native of the Alleghenies) over the Elm St bridge…
ER, Ouch, that had to hurt (not the rod, but the repercussions?). At least it was broken on a fish and not in a bike crash or something–you had to get some kudos for that.
Nice. Have you also considered that the things you write have “soft life” in them and will be cherished by those who have them when you are gone? They will transfer a different touch. A touch transferred through word, to eyes, to brain, to heart. Another glowing, but not of forgotten men, but remembered men.
Robert, I’m glad you focused on the Lawrence poem, which is where my thoughts really were. I have often thought about that transfer of something from writer to reader and talk to my students about that. But I really like the idea of “remembered men” instead of forgotten. How can those who have transferred their touch and life into something, ever be forgotten? What things do we cherish without really recognizing the creator of that thing, whether it be words, objects or ideas? In the first strophe of another of Lawrence’s poems, “Whatever Man Makes,” he says,
Which seems at first glance obvious, but the question for me is, How does one put “life” into the things one makes? How do I imbue my writing or my woodwork or whatever I make, with life? How do I know when I have successfully put life into it?
Surely these are things to think about along with your thoughts.
I was also thinking about the “making” of tying flies, but thought I’d save that for another post along with another of Lawrence’s poems titled “Things Made by Iron.”
Scott,
Beautifully done. Putting life into it. Lore.
I guess what we really do is to place a bit of our personality in all of our makings, both concrete and prose.
The Lawrence poem was a perfect compliment.
Art. Beauty. Life. Creation.
Erik, I liked the “lore” idea here–evokes a lot of thoughts. Makes me think of “craft.” Things handed down (lore) and things made (craft). Brings about the idea of apprentice as well–taking the time to really learn and know ones vocation/avocation.
Scott,
I’m not sure how one puts “life” into something other than maybe in the care with which he builds or creates something. That may come down to asking the question, what is quality and what is art? And who appreciates it and why appreciate it?
If something is handed down with a story, then the remembering of the story may add the life. If something is “found” and no story is attached, then the wondering of who made/created it may add the “life.” This may be especially true if the object is found to be made with care–signifying work of quality and art.
Just thinking out loud here.
Robert,
Art–heavy topic…not sure I’m willing to bite that off at the moment.
I really like that dichotomy between “handed down” and “found,” and how the life got there.
I especially like that idea of finding something and giving it life simply through our thoughts, but also based on the crafter’s care in the crafting.
Then I had this thought: My grandpa once made me a very simple willow branch whistle. That thing was full of life. At the time it was meaningful and though I never kept it, the thought of it brings to rememberance his life and caring.
Most things created by a family member, and given to me (especially by my kids), I have a real hard time throwing it away. I’ve never really examined why that is, but it might have something to do with this “life” that is in it: they have created something which takes on part of their life, and then I throw it away–I thow away part of them. Should I feel guilty about tossing out a note my daughter wrote to me?
I have a little two-ball snowman sitting on my desk right now. It has permanent marker eyes (its right one is nearly gone–just a smudge leaving it winking at me in some Tim Burtonesque way), mouth, nose and buttons. Its head and body are misshapen chunks of fired clay painted white. This is one ugly snowman. But, on the bottom is carved “Scott – 1972″). I remember making this when I was seven. I would never depart with it now. I thank my mom for being a hoarder of all things her children made. What happens when I die? What story can I leave with this ugly thing–I made this at school? It’s not even a story. It’s the feeling I have now for the thing. Why do I even have this feeling? Because it’s something I made? Because it’s old? Because my mom thought it would be something I would like to remember later in life? I don’t know, and I don’t know how to express that to those I might leave it for later.
Have you ever helped someone clean up a deceased person’s stuff? And think, “Why did they keep this crap?” Some people are true hoarders, keeping everything. But what about the personal mementos? I have a real hard time throwing away a dead person’s stuff because I feel guilty that I’m tossing something of meaning, of worth. Is that bizarre, or what?