Measure Twice, Cut Twice

So there's an expression used in general construction or woodworking: Measure twice, cut once.
It basically means, be extra careful before you cut, so you get it right the first time.

Today I invented a new version of that time-tested cliche: Measure twice, cut twice. Basically, it means measure twice, but leave enough of a margin for error, so that if you have to cut twice, you're able to do so.

Luckily, I was able to. We spent the last couple of days making round-bottom coopering planes. These are more complicated than the planes we've previously made, and are used to make curved doors, which are pretty much the coolest thing ever.

Once mine was cut, laid out, glued up and ready to go, I sketched out a shape that a liked and headed into the machine shop to cut it out. I even showed it to my benchmate Jim and a friend Max, and they both liked it.

I cut it out on the band saw and walked back to my bench feeling pretty awesome about it, when I suddenly realized it was backwards. I had completely reversed it, and the plane's shape suddenly made no sense at all.

I quickly put it under my bench and sat down, feeling miserable. Jim took one look at me and said 'where's your plane??' thinking I had thrown it in the trash.

I pulled it out and showed it to him, and he studied it for a minute before breaking out laughing. He's normally a pretty polite guy, but couldn't control it. I don't blame him, I busted out too, and pretty soon a group had gathered around, all laughing at my mistake.

Then Laura, our instructor and the director of the program, came over asking to see me 'Canadian pull plane,' had a good laugh and quickly showed me how I could fix it.

In the end, all was well because I had enough material to change the shape and reverse the direction -- essentially, to fix my mistake. The lesson: Measure twice, cut twice.

Or better yet, learn from my mistake and get it right the first time.

Lessons in Plane-Making

Once our tools were sharp, and the process of sharpening was ingrained in our heads, we began the process of making our own planes – and we spent most of a week doing it, building a smoothing and jointer plane. One is designed to prepare final surfaces for the eye, the other to flatten edges of boards for joining, or jointing.

There are rules in plane-making but there is also a freedom.

 The rules revolve around the specific angle for the throat and ramp, the amount of space between the blade and the mouth, the spindle and the blade assemble, and the flatness of that sole, etc.

But beyond that there’s a freedom. The planes could take any shape that suited the maker.

Some people sketched out the shape, then cut them on the band saw, using it as a carving machine to leave big, rough cuts and stylistic jagged edges on the final product.

Others went into great detail in their designs, with fancy curves, handles and etchings.

And others followed the Krenovian approach, with all the artistry contained in the relationships between the different components -- the body of the plane little more than a block of wood with slightly rounded edges and a rough symmetry.

All were beautiful and useful in their own way, and each reflected the owner’s personality in some measure.

Our instructor Greg told us about a plane Krenov himself made, one of many, but which performed well for years and became a favourite.

“He just got it right on that one – I don’t even think Krenov himself could really tell you why,” said Greg.

There was just something about it, he said. The angles, the geometry, the relationships between the various parts. It worked, as Krenov would say, like a fine instrument.

Mine, just a few days old now, have already become an extension of myself. The way they fit in my hand, the finicky way the blades need to be tapped, backed out, tapped again, tried and tried until the perfect shaving is produced, the way they seem to jump to the work when tuned just so.

But more importantly, it’s the effect they have on a board that is so incredible. A piece of wood, surfaced in a planer or jointer in the machine shop and appearing perfectly fine to the eye, comes alive when the hand planer is used.

Something happens. The board begins to glow, the facets reflecting the light and revealing a warmth that was always there beneath the surface but that a machine simple didn’t have the ability to unveil.

It’s a beautiful thing and a blessing to hold the tools in my hands and know that these things, built to do work, are successful at that objective. I want to be that way too.