Today we chased down 1/16th of an inch. We were hanging one of four sheets, each roughly five feet by fourteen feet, 11 gauge stainless steel. Ceiling panels. The tolerances are tight — 10,000ths of an inch. Two beard hairs. Truly. A sheet of paper is roughly 3,000ths of an inch, and, my beard hairs are 5,000ths. Does it matter? In wood we often chased down a quarter, or an eighth of an inch, in layout. I’ve heard other wood workers brag about working in 64ths, but a 64th is pretty much nothing in something that checks and swells and shrinks, on a regular basis. Heck, honestly, an inch can disappear in wood. You might not think so, but in a large frame it might not be that big of a deal. Sheetrock, stone, wattle and daub, brick, wood paneling, the list is almost endless, and, all of those materials can be, and likely will be, made to fit whatever is going on in the structure. They are malleable.

I got tired of working to standards that only had meaning in the eye of the beholder, where very little was real, and most was posturing of one sort or another. Truth be told I was drifting, or, I would have cleaved to what mattered rather than cleaving to what didn’t. The posturing didn’t matter. There are people doing real things out there, beautiful things. In wood. In plaster. In stone, and in metal. In so many venues. I am in awe, often times, when I see some of what they are doing.

So this 1/16th of an inch we were chasing today, did it really matter? Yes. Metal is… very interesting. There is no room in this “ceiling”. The next sheet is a hair big, and its not a flat sheet. And it has holes in it that have to hit other holes, and, make other holes with the remaining ceiling panels, and, if we try and cram a sheet that is to big into a space that is just a little bit to small, without the ability to really bar it and control it as its being welded, then… well. Its going to go wild anyway. Poor design, I’m told. And I can see that. It is a pain from start to finish, but we are getting there, and, it will be ok when its done.

At 48, I’m almost the youngest guy on the crew, and, at the bottom regarding experience. some of these men have been doing this since I was 4 years old. Of each of these men, every single one of them says this is the worst design they’ve ever seen. But. But they can make it happen, and, when its completed, those who designed it, and contracted with us to have it built will see their dream made real and undoubtedly congratulate themselves, and perhaps even go on to have more of these built. As is. Its simply what happens no matter what field you are in.

I am almost happy. For me this structure is a God send, for its making my mentors dig deep, and I am learning how they solve problems! What I am learning, more than anything else is the practice of good welding, over simply producing a good bead. Heat control is so vital. As is getting things where you want them, and, where you NEED them to go. We have spent weeks positioning these sheets, tacking each one in place, getting each one right to allow the next one to be where it needs to be, and soon, we will start the seam welding, and that will take very little time. If we did everything correctly. If we didn’t, it will require a lot of straightening, and, if we didn’t, it will be a mess. As simple as that. So we chase down the 1/16th, and set to shear the next sheet.

Meanwhile. I had found the site of some friends in Plymouth, and found, rekindled, a fire that hadn’t quite died. Inside me smoke from peg shavings, the rough feel of wood chips below my feet, the feel of an axe in my hand, the press of a hewn face on my left hip. Its gentle in those memories, and those feelings.

I want a place of my own again. This time a metal shop and a forge. Scribe buildings, hewn from the round, plenty of wayne. I want those in my catalogue as well. And hills and trees and smoke in my life. We already cook by fire in the backyard. Plum and Apple and Russian Olive and some Catalpa. I want God there as well. I was ok, sometimes, but its not enough, living for yourself, or, occasionally doing something “nice” for others. In my Creator I find peace that I didn’t have before. I am a better worker, a better husband, and better to myself, as a result. I find that I want to do right by my wife. She deserves that, and, when things go south between us, I call on Him, and, that’s no small thing. We are so fical as human beings.

Where is this going?

There is an image that is forming. In that image is a house, land, quiet days, green days. The sound of an axe, or a hammer, laughter, the image of a smile, my wife! Love kindles in my heart, bursts into small, warming flames, fed by this gentleness. People with skilled hands, and human, soft, human hearts, around. Blue sky, doted with white, fluffy clouds, chill in the air. But it is ok. No skyscrapers, no corner offices, no endless processions of… whatever. All this chasing a better job, a bigger house, a cooler car, and squirting children out into the world with fevered dreams of procuring all of the above. What is wrong with a child wanting to be home, to do what their father did, or working beside a forge, or in a field, or surrounded by family of their own, for all the days of their lives? The wind is content to blow, the tree to wave, and the land to breathe. Lord, let me be the same.

Creation, or the world of man. The voice of the wind, the sighing, and the creak of the forest and the smell of the earth, or the beeping of cars, the smell of fumes and the endless crush of people. There is never enough in the city. Never.