Maine Craft

For a moment, the snowflakes drifting outside the frosted window matched the rhythm of the soft curls of cedar falling from my workstand and slowly gathering in sweet-scented piles around my feet. A fire crackled and popped from a time-blackened potbellied stove nearby, warming the small three-roomed shop. I worked in a plaid flannel shirt and glue-stained army green overalls, surrounded by wood surfboards in various states of construction, tall stands of freshly milled cedar planks, woodworking tools arrayed on battered shelves, and white plastic buckets filled with colorful spring-loaded clamps. The local college radio station’s ’90s alternative block hissed through static from a wall-mounted boombox covered in dust and festooned with rickety antennas. Charlie, a six-year-old chocolate Lab and the official workshop dog, was curled beside the fireplace snoozing, her coat dusted with blonde flecks of wood. My passes with the block plane along the stepped rails of my surfboard began to move in time with her snoring—plane drawn back with her breath, pushed out to her rumbling snores, more curls of cedar twisting down to the floor.