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Richard the Worthless Woodworking Wonder
by Davis Lunsford
This magazine has featured the best woodworkers, the most impressive shops, and the finest woodworking. How about a change of pace? It’s time for a terrible woodworker, his shabby shop, and his worthless woodworking.
The terrible woodworker? Richard Lunsford. A “show us your shop” feature would reveal a silver metal farm building flanked by livestock barn on the left, a wheat field on the right, mesquite and prickly pear behind, and a roping arena in front. Inside, you’d find ancient, dusty power tools — bought from a retiring cabinet maker across town and subsequently abused by five children and sixteen grandchildren. As the tools broke from time or misuse, they were abandoned where they stood; no one had the know-how to fix them or to use them correctly if they were fixed. By the time I arrived on the scene (I was one of the last grandchildren) the planer, lathe, and bandsaw had fallen in the line of duty. The table saw, radial arm saw, and chop saw held the fort.
Three generations of artifacts and offcuts littered the shop: construction lumber from his 100-year-old Victorian farm house, Folgers coffee cans filled with rusty nails and screws, a fish mount of a largemouth bass, horse tack, a trotline. A row of theater seats, salvaged when Richard’s father closed his local movie theater, offered rest during projects, usually accompanied by a Coke from the wood-paneled mini fridge, circa whenever wood paneled fridges were a thing. Everything was covered with dust from the surrounding wheat fields and decorated with dirt dauber nests.
That shop produced some pathetic products. Perhaps the magnum opus was the doghouse built inside the shop, but then un-built when it wouldn’t fit out the shop door. Then there’s the treasure box he helped me build. The sides were made from plywood T1-11 paneling, the lid from half of an old cedar fencepost. To illustrate his ineptitude, let me tell you he thought and thought about how to make the groove in the paneling wrap around the corners, but never figured out a miter joint would do the trick.
His disciples carried on the tradition of unimpressive woodworking. My cousins and I spent summer hours building our signature design: the cross. We cut a stick, nailed one section on the other, and then proudly presented the result to a parent or grandparent. I believe that during the summer months, Olney, Texas was the nation’s highest per capita producer of crooked crosses. The shop looked like hillbilly Hobby Lobby.
Eventually, we graduated to something more advanced: We cut a stick, nailed one section on the other… then turned it upside down and sharpened one end — a sword! When I think of the number of swords and knives I turned out to fuel our violent fantasies, my only hope at judgement day will be that the number of crosses was greater… It will be close. (I’m not sure how they count the ones that we flipped upside down and moved from one category to the other.)
We rounded out our repertoire with our most advanced project: coasters made by slicing cedar fenceposts into cookies. If the fencepost was on the small side, voila! You just made checkers.
So why feature Richard Lunsford, the worthless woodworking wonder in a woodworking magazine? Because in those years of mediocrity he accomplished one great thing: he lit a spark.
During those hours with him in the shop, I made a lot of ugly things. But during those hours in the shop, I made things. That was the gateway drug.
Eventually, I learned to miter those corners. I learned joinery. I built furniture. I built a boat. You know who never did any of those things? My non-sword-making friends. Their spark never got lit.
Woodworking takes desire and ability. My grandfather had none of the latter, but he sparked the former through enthusiasm — through enthusiastic, inclusive, mediocrity. That treasure box? A mediocre product, but a magical process. He took me to the hardware store, where he interacted with every employee with genuine kindness. We walked to the hardware section, where I studied every hinge, looking for the fanciest. When we finished, he gave me a few coins as seed stock for treasure. Mitered corners or not, I was busting with pride.
I know “my-grandparent-taught-me-to-love-woodworking” stories are a dime a dozen. Mine’s not rare, but it’s special. Richard’s shop never turned out anything magazine worthy – but it’s where he cried to me after his wife of 57 years died. It’s where I sat with my sister and her American Girl Doll, side by side by side in the theater seats, teaching her to spit sunflower seeds.
I think most woodworking in America is done by people like the Lunsfords in shops like Richard’s — With what tools they have, in what time they have, in spaces shared with fishing rods, lawnmowers, and moving boxes — and people they love.
So if you want to advance the woodworking craft, sure, work on your dovetails; but work on your relationships, too. I’m an ambassador for Richard’s brand of inclusive, enthusiastic mediocrity. Don’t prioritize knowledge over kindness. Cranky old men on Internet forums have that covered. Reverse that ratio. Light a spark. If you can’t be a great woodworker, be a great grandfather.
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