Jack Gould: Untitled (two men sawing large logs) (c. 1950)

" … designed to preserve enthusiasm rather than undermine it."

Yesterday, while the rest of the world was busy going to Hell, I rediscovered an often unused corner of my little Heaven here. I'd tried and failed to construct a little pop-up-paint-tent on the front of the garage to shade me while I strip and repaint some long trim boards for our front porch restoration. I'd drilled holes and set eye hooks, thinking I could string up a tarp to serve as the roof, but I was short one anchor point. I figured I could screw a left over cut-down seven-foot two-by into a paver then further weigh that down with a concrete cornerstone, but the screws failed, so I folded up the tarp and set that project aside. My puttering efforts often encounter such blockages because, despite my advancing age, I remain largely ignorant about calculating forces. Combine that innocence with at least an equal ignorance of how such problems are typically solved, and I have an explanation for why my grand schemes so often initially fail. I do not take these failures personally. I consider my attempts experiments, even though I suspect that someone out there could solve such problems in their head without even resorting to pencil and paper. I almost always eventually resolve such difficulties, though usually in ways I couldn't have imagined before serially failing. The universe backs me into most of my successes.

That problem set aside, I attempted to resolve another small dilemma. Our neighbor across the street finally pruned her ailing lilac clump this spring, resulting in two rather large-ish piles of lilac limbs. These were mostly not merely sticks but two and more inch, four and five-foot lengths of the hardest imaginable wood. Purple inside with a swirl, these babies needed sawing into more usable lengths. I'd loaded them into the back of my pick-up and parked it overnight. I thought I might set up a couple of saw horses in the driveway and have at it, cutting the lengths into more usable sizes and getting myself a little exercise. My neighbor had used her little saws-all attachment that came with her cordless electric household tool assortment, and The Muse had been after me to find an excuse to use the one she'd acquired when she bought her literal bagful of the same tools. I had resisted her invitation because I try not to use power saws. I have more than a simple aversion to power tools, and power saws stand at the top of that list.

I no longer own small gas engines requiring hours of fruitless starter pulling. I could rarely get them to respond to even my more sincere attempts to coax them into usefulness. My neighbor owns a little electric chainsaw, and he even coaxed me into using it when he helped me chip up some prunings, but he supervised, and I was conservative. I engaged in none of the usual boyish swordplay even the more mature adults tend to engage in whenever using power tools. I cut a few longer limbs and left them at that. I didn't immediately run out to The Despot to purchase one in a fit of power tool envy. I do not experience power tool envy. I typically experience power tool pity instead. I grieve for the experiences power tool users miss, like the sublime sensations that accompany employing a BowSaw instead of a chainsaw. A BowSaw is ancient tech, a thin, cleverly designed blade suspended between two bow-shaped bar's ends. Cutting happens when the operator pulls the blade across the limb or log. Almost no effort is involved in using a BowSaw. Pushing down on the saw causes it to stick and bind. It insists that the operator engage effortlessly, or it prevents progress.

This subtle difference exists with most comparisons between power tools and manual ones. The old-fashioned manual tools replaced simple brawn with intelligence, displacing with design the need for strength. I'd tried to use that silly little saws-all saw like The Muse had insisted, but it twisted and bound. I found it almost useless. I hesitantly pulled my BowSaw off its hanging nail. It took me a while to relearn its eternal lesson: Less effort produces more progress. Hard as I tried at first to turn that task into work, the saw wouldn't hear of such a thing. It rewarded me only when I lightly pulled and just as lightly pushed. The wood was twisted, and I lacked a decent crotch on the lead sawhorse to hold the limbs properly, but by applying the least effort, I managed to make progress. It seemed miraculous, as it always does, when such genius manifested. I remember my dad teaching me how to work his BowSaw. I was at first insistent that I needed to exert maximum effort to succeed. I had secretly wanted to impress him with my dedication, but he dissuaded me from working so hard. "Easier does it," he insisted. Laying off proved harder than it should have. That BowSaw eventually came to seem like a perfect cover for slacking. I could cut wood without hardly raising a sweat, and certainly without fear of repetitive motion injury. I mostly kept this understanding as my little secret.

I'm learning that properly designed tools always share this one feature. Their whole purpose seems to be about requiring less effort. Our Paleolithic ancestors, who possessed no power tools, possessed a power that mere electricity never surpassed. I've adopted a cordless electric drill and driver, and almost exclusively employ a random orbital sander, but sawing seems a different class of work. I have my grandfather's fine-toothed cherry-handled crosscut saw for cutting fine lumber and my trusty old BowSaw for almost everything else. A small pruning saw completes the arsenal, each tool with its unique purpose and respective touch. Each repeats its lesson with every use. I always start with too much strength and too much enthusiasm before remembering that Easy Does It is more than some feel-good aphorism. Even when the rest of the world seems determined to go to Hell, I can enter a corner of my little Heaven and engage in some renewing old-fashioned labor designed to preserve enthusiasm rather than undermine it.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #CHope , #PureSchmaltz