It was a summer mornin' back in 1968, the kind where the humidity hangs heavy like a wet wool blanket. My daddy called me into the workshop. The air smelled of sawdust and linseed oil, a scent that still brings me right back to that moment.
He handed me a chisel. Not just any chisel, but one he'd sharpened himself, the steel gleamin' like a river stone. "Andy," he said, his voice low and steady, "wood don't lie. You treat it right, it stands tall. You rush it, it'll break your heart."
I was maybe ten years old, but I understood. We took an old oak board, rough-hewn and stubborn. He showed me how to hold the handle, how to let the blade do the work, not my strength. Every stroke had to be deliberate. If you forced it, the grain would split, and you'd have to start over.
That first cut was shaky, but by the end of the afternoon, I had a smooth, clean edge. My daddy smiled, that proud, quiet smile of his. "There it is," he said. "Now you know the secret. It ain't about the tools. It's about the hands that hold 'em."
I carry that lesson with me still. Whether I'm fixing a neighbor's porch step or teaching a young volunteer at the senior center, I remember that first chisel. Every joint, every sanded edge—it's a promise you make to the thing you're mending.