THE WOBBLE BENCH

Back in '68, I built a workbench from pine scrap and stubbornness. She stood ten feet long, eight inches thick — and she danced like a leaf in a cyclone. Every time I laid a chisel down, the whole damn thing shivered.

They said start over. I said: teach her to stand still.

I didn't burn her. I carved her. Took seven seasons to grow the oak knee braces that finally whispered "steady" to her trembling legs.

This page isn't a photo of the bench. It's the scar-map of the moment she stopped dancing.