Ammi Midstokke: Machines that go whirr

I can’t claim to know a lot of certain truths in this life, but I can tell you this: It’s highly unlikely I will ever be a cabinet maker.

As far as I can tell, cabinet makers have a lot of special tools. Some of them are scrape-y tools, some of them are shave-y tools, and some of them are pokey. They also use a variety of fasteners. I keep my fasteners, all of them, in a single rusty bucket. I call it my nail bucket, but there are some different things in there and I’m not real sure what they are used for.

Occasionally, I find the right kind of twisty-pokey tool to stab the fastener into things and it holds one thing to another thing for a brief moment. It is with this same naive ambition that I requested some pallets from which I intended to build flower boxes. I was slightly deterred when I discovered that measurements and math would be required, but thankfully, I am currently home-schooling someone who is adept at fractions and Pinterest research.

I have to do this project when Charlie is not around. This is not new. I do a lot of secret projects when Charlie is not around. Sometimes I involve him by describing the project innocently, as if I have it all figured out. I use a lot of words like “easy” and “simply” and “a few minutes.” For a while, I thought maybe he was developing a tic, but I noticed his convulsions mostly correlated to me suggesting that spray foam can be used to fill any hole of any size. In fact, I have some ground squirrel holes I’m going to try it in soon.

Usually, when he leaves for work the next day, I find a wagon with pokey and twisty tools laid out in order from largest to smallest, along with screws that are all the same size and a drill bit that actually has the same shape as the head of said screws. It’s like a tool fairy came in the night. Sometimes I think the first aid kit has also been relocated to a more obvious place, but I can’t be sure.

I believe that all machines that go whirr have essentially the same capabilities. Some whirr a little this way and some whirr a little that way, but for the most part, they’ll eventually whirr a board in half or lengthwise or at a 45-degree angle. After that, it just takes a few bent nails to mostly attach one board to another and you pretty much have a cabinet. If you want to get fancy, I suppose you could engineer some hinges with bailing wire. If there are any gaps, fill them with spray foam.

One of the benefits of living in a straw-bale house built presumably by someone who was on a psilocybin vision quest, is that there are no right angles to be found. In fact, they are so rare that building anything symmetrical or at 90 degrees would rather disrupt the whole Dr. Seuss structure theme I have going on here. It is with this flexible optimism that I set to breaking down pallets for lumber, a project that has mostly just yielded swear words and kindling.

I briefly thought about purchasing some boxes and just pretending that I’d made them myself, but it’s really hard to find carpentry with as many bent nails and blood spatters as I would need for that authentic self-made quality. Besides, I have just enough success with the whirring machines to stay cocky.

“You can’t make that board,” Charlie said. “You need the (machine that goes whirr through the table) or it won’t have straight lines.” It’s cute that he thinks I know what a straight line looks like.

He was barely out of the driveway before I marched into the shop to assess the whirring machines I might use. He has been working diligently for weeks to organize the tools so that I might easily find things for my projects. Right there, at the front of the tool bench, I found all the hand saws hanging neatly on a hook, as if placed just there at a height appropriate for a Norwegian carpentry apprentice. He’s so thoughtful.

It wasn’t until I finished hacking at a piece of cedar and gluing it to the window frame with spray foam that I realized all the real tools had been safely left out of my direct view and the batteries stored in an entirely different place. But I found them. After I finished my treasure hunt and trim job, and applied a few Band-Aids, I proudly sent him a photograph of my wonky board tacked to the front of the house.

“You’re so good at the things,” he said.

Which is exactly why I am going to marry him.