Making Wood Talk

 I suppose I've always been somewhat of a Daddy's girl. When I was little, I used to travel with my father when he would do his gigs: little mother/daughter banquet shows at local churches. Soren (his dummy), my father and I would often travel up to 60 miles (in the snow -- up hill, both ways) to attend these banquets. I pretty much had his whole program down pat, and around seven years old, I became his biggest fan. I knew all the songs he would sing by heart. Knew all of his jokes, and sometimes would ruin the punchline by screaming it out before he or Soren had a chance. While other children might be a bit frightened by Soren (my dad was a pretty awesome ventriloquist), I was fearless. I loved my other brother. I would sometimes speak directly to him like he was speaking and not my father whose lips barely moved. Hell, Soren even played the trumpet.

My father could have been famous.

My father built our very first lake home. At first we would just stay every other week or so during the summers since my father was a full time pastor at a church an hour away. But during vacations, usually around this time of the year, we would escape. I can't even describe our other home there on the lake. It was full of decks and exposed wood and a fireplace covered in rock with pieces of mica the kids would peel off layer by layer.  I loved that house, spiders and all. After we moved to the lake all year round, my father started building houses for other people and preaching less. Instead of making Soren talk, he made homes ... carved into wood and positioned beams to create lake homes for other lucky families. It was uncommon to travel to any friend's homes and not see some of my father's work. There was always a hardwood floor he had installed, cabinets he had created and hung, bathrooms he had refinished, log homes he had pieced together.

And then he got older.

I suppose why I'm my father's daughter is that I love to create. Sometimes I sit down in front of the computer to write these little blogs every day, and I just see a blank screen staring at me. And then, the words start to come. Today it started with the table at which I sit (working on not ending my sentences with prepositions ... did that work?)  My father built this table. He's sticking to smaller projects now, although this table weighs at least five hundred pounds. There are fourteen chairs around this table -- a few are keeping the corners of the room comfortable. He found the chairs at garage sales throughout Minnesota, brought them home, stripped them, sanded and stained them all the same honey brown color of the table. They all look related, with slight variances and personalities and stories. He carved ladyslippers and sunflowers and these Norwegian type floral design thingees he learned how to do a few summers ago into the sides of the table. Every now and then I look down to trace a few curves and dips. It's like candy braille for my fingers.

My father has made wood talk all his life. He can pick up a piece of wood, hold it to his ear, and find out what it wants to be. Once he hears their story, he will get lost for hours breathing life into it, making it speak again.

So here I am -- listening. Writing my words onto "paper" and breathing life into them.

Just like my father taught me.