It must be true. A man needs a hobby. If not true, there wouldn't exist hobby shops, right? Hobby shops equal truth. Obama and McCain need to be talking about hobbies more. Do either have a hobby? I mean, outside of running for president, what do these men do?
Of course, the great American hobby shop has suffered serious changes over the years. Gone for the most are the small Mom&Pop(mostly Pop)shops that catered to the hobbyist who modeled trains, planes, and cars. Although I can with some pride tell you that a branch of my family continues to own and operate the Scranton Hobby Center, an enterprise of longstanding.
I worked there once, stood behind a counter and sold model trains and planes and cars and assorted other hobby type things that are all part and parcel of the hobbyist's life.
Hobbyists collect things, lots of things.
Not only do they collect the object of their affection, model trains for instance, they need to have all the tools, gizmos, dooflathchies, and assorted apparatus that only a respectable model train-weenie would have. Yes, I was one once. Leaving that behind, I morphed into just a plain train-weenie, a lover of the real thing, real trains.
Model rocketry was big when I did hobby sales for a living, although its charm was forever lost on me. You go up, you come down. That's it...if you're lucky. Most guys I knew who gave model rocketry a shot never got off the ground, literally. The few times they did, there was nothing to see. If you do it right, your rocket streaks into the sky so fast you can't see it beyond maybe a brief glimpse.
Since then, I've had my share of hobbies. Seems to me that I always had some distraction in my life, one to take my mind off of life. I say that's a good thing. I say that's what a hobby is all about. If it's productive, all the better.
For a good many years it was fly fishing. Fly fishing was more passion than hobby, more part of my life than a moment or two away from it. Like all else, that passed.
Then it was gardening. With complete abandon I tossed myself into horticulture and botany, arbor-culture and soil amending, germination, cultivation and composting. Same deal, that passed, too.
As a kid, I always admired those who could, are you ready for this, whittle. Yes, I said whittle.
Every time I put knife to stick the
finished product look like a stick that someone had been hacking at with a knife. Try as I could and did, whittling wasn't one of those gifts we all possess in some form. I couldn't even make a stick look like a stick.I physically ached to be able to hand carve a neckerchief slide(actually known as a "woggle") when I was a Boy Scout, like the one on the right. My particular favorite was that of an Indian Chief in full headdress...hand carved, of course. Fat chance. I couldn't get beyond a block of wood that was the right size. If you have a second, try this site devoted to woggles and the apparently lost craft of making them.
So it was that a couple years back I decided to try another take, a different spin, on the wonder of whittling.
It came to one day as I wandered the trails of Frances Slocum State Park. Making my way along a pitched mountain path, the idea of a walking stick seemed like a pretty solid idea.
Not that where I was hiking was dangerous, treacherous. Slocum ain't Mount Katahdin. But a sturdy staff for guidance would be a nice tool to have at one's disposal, should one lose balance like the big, clumsy, not at all surefooted oaf that one is. Whereupon one such oaf would slide down the side of hill full of rocks and twigs, many of which would then become embedded in the flesh, thereby causing some pain.
Pain would be wages enough for being a klutz, never mind that someone should see Mr. Oaf take the tumble. The humiliation would test the best of us. (Remind me to recount the time I did take a lovely header at Lake Scranton. I understand that those who witnessed it - and there were several witnesses - laugh about it to this day.)
Now, I make walking sticks. Find a suitable stick, strip the bark, sand, sand again, do some more detail sanding, clean with a tack cloth, apply first coat of tung oil...then you sand and oil, then sand and oil again. In the end, you may use a paste wax, buff to a lustrous sheen, then take a hike.The sticks pictured here look nothing like mine, except that basic no-frills model you see third from the left. I've yet to get into fancy handles and knobs. On the outside chance I don't get bored, I may do so before long. Maybe one day soon we'll see you at Knobs 'N Knockers on a Saturday afternoon.
Sticks, the bare starter sticks, are everywhere. Probably around your property, or your neighbors' property. Likely there's a usable one blown down from a tree during a recent storm. If you're lucky, it'll have blown down a year or more ago. The older the stick, the drier the wood, and the drier the better for present purposes.
If your testosterone isn't already bubbling, consider this: You get to use tools, even power tools! Yes, a jig saw for trimming, an orbital sander for rough sanding, and a Dremel tool for the finer and more delicate touches. Why, it's man's world, I tell you!
If that wasn't enough to get your genes all giddy, you even have to do some sanding by hand. Yes, by golly, by hand. If you want a real fine finish on that stick, you'll need to do some hand-sanding.
What I guess has taken place is me finding a way to whittle without being able to whittle.
It's fun, harmless, keeps me out of the saloons(I go to Wegmans, see previous post), and it gives me something useful when done. Oh, yeah, I've fully completed one stick so far, but it is a dandy. I'm quite proud of it, thank you.
Now all I need to do is start walking again...
