When I was growing up in north central Illinois, my grandparents lived just across the street. Most houses in the Midwest have full basements, but my grandfather’s was special. Grandpa Shaddle loved woodworking and had a workshop in his basement, with an old workbench, a power jigsaw, sander and wood lathe, along with the usual assortment of hand tools. He would store walnuts down there to snack on; not bags of store-bought walnuts, but the real thing in the shell that he’d crack and then use some retired dental picks to pry out the good part. I remember it as being heaven, especially in the winter. Dry and warm, and smelling of walnuts and woodshavings. I can still conjure up that smell, over a half a century later.
My grandfather was born in 1883, and Dad was in his 30’s when I was born in 1951, so there was a nearly 68-year age difference between Grandpa Shaddle and me. But I was Dad’s firstborn son, and I’ve been told that when I was born people said I was the spitting image of my Grandpa, so I’m guessing he felt close to me in spite of the age difference. I didn’t really think much about the age difference at the time; I just figured everyone’s grandfather was that much older than their grandkids.
When I was 9 or 10, for some reason I got interested in Grandpa’s workshop. I think I wanted to make some kind of an airplane model or something, and his basement looked like a great resource. Or maybe I pestered him to let me use his equipment; it’s a bit fuzzy to me all these decades later. But in any case I spent time with him in his basement learning an appreciation for wood and wound up getting sawdust in my veins.
He taught me to respect hand tools; to understand that there is a right way and a wrong way to work with wood. He taught me shop safety and cleanup (although the latter lesson may not have sunk in completely) and how to use the hand tools to produce things of beauty as well as utility. I think much of my appreciation for wood and woodworking can be traced back to how it reminds me of those afternoons in Grandpa Shaddle’s basement.
Years later I got to thinking about our age difference. Here’s this old man (nearly 80) who takes this kid of 9 or 10 under his wing to attempt to transfer his love of woodworking to another generation. It must have been challenging to him; I’m sure my attention span was short and his hands probably hurt (after years of old-school dentistry I’m sure he had arthritis) but he was extraordinarily patient with me.
I think of that time when I get out my woodworking tools. Over 50 years later, getting to work in my shop is still one of the most satisfying things I can do.
