On a clear autumn morning, a friend and I search the woods for the perfect windfallen oak or hickory log. We cut the log, split it up where it falls and haul it home. The wood has hardly missed its leaves before it finds itself part of a beautiful chair.

The woodworking tools and techniques I use are many centuries old. All the items I make bear the marks of my hand tools. The quiet of my shop is reminicent of a pre-industrial country woodshop. Like 18th century woodworkers I use safe, non-toxic finishes that protect your health, my health and the health of our planet.

The feel of a razor sharp drawknife slicing pungent oak shavings from a chair spindle . . . the sight of long ribbons of fresh maple flying off the lathe to land in a pile of curls at my feet . . . these are the pleasures of my life.