A

 

 


 

CONTACT ME

 


 

Imagine your ad here!

Inquire within.

 

 

 



 


 

The Table

and the Dandy

  by Joe Johns

 

 

It was a very blustery day on that early September morning and every gust that buffeted against the window caused me to glance up and each time I did, I thought it would implode across the workbench.

 

“Go ahead, cheap window,” I said aloud, “Go ahead and break, at least you'd give me something to do.”

 

In contrast, the day before the shop was a beehive of activity; all my pals were in the joint hovering around the dart board and sponging out of my beer fridge and I was up on a ladder, busy installing a new 32” TV and enjoying the chuckles from their friendly banter.

 

“Ya know, Jim…” I heard Brad say and looked over to see him take a slug of beer, “One of these days I'm gonna have to analyze why I let you be my partner…Ray Charles throws better darts 'n you!”

 

I was stunned! My eyebrows rose considerably and I banged the side of my head like you do when you get out of the shower.

 

“Hey!” I yelled down from my elevated position, “Did I just hear Brad annunciate a three-syllable word?”

 

“Yeah,” Bob said, grinning, “We've been practicin' him up…pretty soon we'll have him using some of them hanging particles and everything.”

 

“Ugghh, I think you mean ‘dangling participles' there Bob.”

 

He waved his hand, “Whatever.”

 

On this day though, besides the weather outside, nothing was going on so I was finding things to do. I absolutely couldn't remember the last time I emptied the pencil sharpeners, so I did that. The outlets had dust on the covers, so I brushed them off. I saw where someone had mingled a few washers into the nuts bin, so I sorted out that bit of nastiness. Next, I was just about to walk across the shop and adjust the light fixture on the band saw when I heard the door open.

 

Now, in Western Montana we're pretty casual dressers, especially when the months get colder, and unless you're a banker or a blood-sucking lawyer, we don't have an awful lot of folks who bother themselves with fashion concerns. Hell, most real folks I know are perfectly content wearing a jacket with an oil stain across the front and a big ole rip at the elbow. Hummm…now that I think on it, I've seen them wear that very jacket to weddings and funerals – that's how casual we are out here.

 

I watched the door and presently a foot, and then a leg and then something else appeared – I had to look twice – is that a cane?

 

Now the whole of the prior partial body is inside and I gazed at him while he gently closed the door. He used a smooth, fluid type of action, almost as if he purposely intended to take control over the gnarly gusts outside while at the same time not appearing to be aggravated by them.

 

I was disgusted. Around here we garner a whole lot of enjoyment out of yelling and cussing at the wind, which is essentially the same as peeing into it – it doesn't do a damn bit of good but it sure gives you a warm, temporary feeling.

 

The door, now closed, he turned swiftly and placed the tip of his cane most properly in front of him and directly between the toes of his highly polished shoes then stood there staring at me without the utterance of a single word.

 

I gulped because I felt like someone on an International flight who had just pressed the call button by mistake and suddenly the stewardess is standing beside your seat with that what could you possibly want now? look.

 

The cane's shaft was patent black, the brass tip glistened against the painted gray floor and the handle was pure, ivory white. Each pant leg had a crisp seam that ran a straight line up from the cuff and stopped just below the pocket. His jacket, in a slight contrast to the charcoal-colored pants, was a dark gray on which were round brass buttons about the size of a Hazelnut. I gulped again because up until that moment the only people I'd ever seen dressed like this were on television. Then I thought, “Ohhh, I get it…this must be prom night – he's a chauffer and he's up here in a rented limousine to pick up some kids and, and, and…he's lost. Yeah, that's it!”

 

“Hello,” I said, peering out the cheap window as I walked by – it wasn't a limo. “What can I help ya with, Mister…?”

 

He tapped the cane on the floor and said, “Good morning, Sir, my name is Mortimer Bentley-Miles the Third and...”

 

“Whoa! That's quite the mouthful, can I call you Mort?”

 

“Sir, you may call me Mortimer Bentley-Miles the Third, Sir.”

 

“I don't think there's enough time in the day…” He raised his eyebrows. “How ‘bout I call you MBMT, instead?”

 

“Sir, my name is Mortimer Bentl…”

 

“Three?” I said, interrupting him.

 

“Sir, my name is Mortim…”

 

“Alright,” I said, interrupting him again, “Just so you know, I charge by the hour. So, what can I help you with Mr. Mortimer Bentley-Miles the Third?”

 

“Sir, I've heard from several influential people around this valley that you are a most talented woodworker and that…”

 

I had to interrupt him, “Awww,” I said, waving my hand, “Go onnnnn.” Then I waved my hand again, “No…really…go onnnn.”

 

He frowned a little, no doubt trying to remember where he left off.

 

“…they say that if anyone would be capable of fixing a potentially hopeless,” He emphasized ‘hopeless' by dragging it out, “weakened state of an antique table, that you would be him.”

 

“Ohhh, yeah, that sounds nice, keep going.” I was beginning to think he'd be a great announcer for This Is Your Life.

 

“They tell me you are a woodworking legend in your own right and I can faithfully entrust this table into your care. Sir, I need for you to realize this is a direct concern for it has been in our family for many, many years an…”

 

“Hey,” I said, clapping my hands together and pointed at him with both fingers, “Not to interrupt you again, but you have a very fine command of English. Would you be interested in tutoring a friend of min…errr, actually he's my brother-in-law. See, he and English are very strange bedfellows and he can use all the help he can get. Whadaya think?”

 

“I think not, Sir, it would be highly irregular. Can we please get back to my table?”

 

“I'm sorry…it's just that I promised his dear-departed Maw that I'd do everything I could to help him pass middle school – see, he's turning forty-three next school year and, as I see it, you're his only chance of moving on to Junior Hi….”

 

“Sir,” He tapped the floor with his cane, “May we please concentrate on the issue of my table?”

 

“Certainly, my good Man, please…carry on, but I really think Brad deserves a fightin' chance.”

 

“As I was saying, the table has been in our family for quite some time and lately it has fallen into a…shall we say, a questionable state? And, since you come so highly recommended, I would like to commission you to secure its favorable outcome. Are you up to the task, Sir?”

 

“Wow! You are good! Where are you from, anyway?”

 

“I am from Boston , Sir. Our daughter, Sarah Jessica Forsythe Bentley-Miles…”

 

I bumped in once again…“Hang on, how'd the ‘Forsythe' slip in there?”

 

“It was her grandmother's maiden name and we chos…”

 

I couldn't help but blurt it out, “Hey, pretty soon it's gonna get tough for your kids to sign a check if you keep tacking on names like that – they only make that line so long, ya know? Say, that reminds me, have you ever heard that song about John Jacob Jingle Heimmer Sch…?”

 

He cleared his throat in a much louder manner than I thought necessary and tapped the floor loudly with his cane like there was some ugly bug crawling around down there somewhere.

 

“Our daughter is attending University in Missoula and our desire is to see this table being a part of her furnishings so she may feel partly at home no matter the fact she is away.”

 

“Holy smokes…you remind me of that…” I said jabbing a finger in the air, “…that Fred guy…ugh, what was his name?” I said snapping my fingers several times, “You know…that guy in those old movies what was always twirling around with that blonde bim…”

 

“Astaire…” He said, rolling his eyes, “His name was Fred Astaire. Now, will you please gravitate toward the matter of my table, I don't wish to stand here all morning.”

 

“Ohh, alright, I was just trying to visit - I'm kinda bored here today. Ya know, if you were Eddie Maughan we'd be standing here ‘til next week – I swear, that man can talk the handles off a Dutch oven. Why, you should have been here that one time when he came in here an…”

 

Over the years I've learned three facts when it comes to someone's furniture:

 

Fact #1 – The piece is never as old as they think it is and it's never made from the kind of wood they think it is:

 

Brrinnnngggg! “Hello, thank you for calling the Twisted Knot Woodshop, how may I direct your call?”

 

“Uggghhh, I need to speak to someone about repairing my very antique table.”

 

“Hummmm, a very antique table , huh?” I said, picking my teeth with a 2d finish nail, “What can you tell me about it?”

 

“Well, it's made with Walnut and I got it from my grandmother who gave it to me just before she died – she told me about how her grandmother had brought it across the country in the back of a covered wagon from St. Loui...”

 

“Ahhh,” I said barely audible while nodding my head at the picture of Norm hanging on the wall, “It's the ole grandmother-wagon train stor…”

 

“Huh? I'm sorry, I didn't catch that?”

 

“Nothing…I was just talking to a colleague of mine - bring it by and I'll take a look at it.”

 

I had to snicker; it was cheap Mahogany and the most likely conveyance it used coming across the country was in the back of a tractor trailer. It wouldn't have surprised me a bit to find out his rich grandmother made that whole story up the minute she found out he was checking her into a nursing home to begin enjoying a drug-induced coma.

 

“Sir, I believe your table is from around the late ‘50s – it's most likely Broyhil…”

 

“Realllly?” He said with dollar signs in his eyes. “The old bat was telling the truth about that wagon!”

 

Fact #2 – The piece is always in worse shape than they think it is:

 

I was walking down the street and bumped into a friend of mine who lives a little ways outside of town in an area known as Round Butte.

 

“Hey, Joe, how are ya?”

 

“Finer ‘n an aged fiddle, Harlen,” I said, shaking his hand. “And you?”

 

Western Montanans are tremendous hand-shakers. Why, I'll run into someone I seen just yesterday and both of us will stick our hands out and say our howdys and howryas. In fact, it's not uncommon to see two grown men hugging each other in the middle of the street – it just means they haven't seen each other for over a week.

 

“Say, Joe, I been meanin' to call ya, I got me this Army-wa and…”

 

“Ahhh, Harlen, it's pronounced, Ammm-waa, the “r” is silent and there isn't any “y”. Hey, I heard a rumor the other day a couple of you guys out there in Round Butte actually graduated, is there any truth to that?”

 

“Noooo…no, I don't think so…” He said, looking up into the clouds and rubbing his chin, “By golly, ya know, I almost got out of ninth grade but all my friends kinda stopped at eighth so I…”

 

“Ya know, Harlen…I'm beginning to see a pattern here – for the past couple of weeks we've been practicin' Brad up – we got an extra seat open if you want it. Bob's kinda handling the class right now but I sure wish I could've talked that one dude into doing it - boy was he good – he could splash around five-dollar words and conjugate verbs and everything. I'm sorry…what'd you say is wrong with your ‘Army-wa'?”

 

From his description the ‘only' problems were a loose hinge and a door frame ‘didn't quite fit'.

 

What I seen when I got there was a piece of furniture that looked as if it had been dragged behind a dump truck down a pothole-ridden gravel road. The side panels were so loose they could have fallen onto the floor in a heap of parts. The wooden pins supporting the shelf had snapped off and it was lying in a twist at the bottom, and the doors looked as if they had spent a considerable amount of their time hanging on a Dodge City saloon.

 

The whole time I looked at it he was smiling and rubbed the piece and made small talk. “You prolly don't know this, Joe, but my great-grandmother brought this all the way out here from St. Lou…”

 

I interrupted him. “…dragging it behind her covered wagon?”

 

Fact #3 – The piece is rarely worth the amount they think it is

 

Not long ago I walked into our local lumber yard to pick up a few items and as I drew closer I saw Mikey behind the counter talking with an older lady and it was obvious she was distraught over something and there was poor Mikey; displaying signs of extreme discomfort. It was exactly the kind of look you'd expect a guy to have if he was sitting on a fist-sized potato wedged between his butt cheeks.

 

As I got closer I began to hear part of their conversation.

 

“…Mam'n, I keep trying to tell you, we don't do that sort of thing here, we only sell stuff, we don't fix things – in fact, there ain't nobody here smart enough to fix anything…”

 

I walked up to the counter and leaned against it saying, “Mikey, tsssstch, tssstch,” I said, waving my finger, “I believe I just heard you use a double negative in that senten….”

 

“JOE!” He cried, pointing his finger from her then to me, “Hey, Lady! This is your guy right here; this is THE MAN you need to talk to Mrs. Flumbum…he's the woodworker's woodworker, why…”

 

“Awwww, go onnnnn.” But, he didn't because he left skid marks as he disappeared around the corner yelling, “Has anyone seen my Valiums?"

 

I turned to face the lady, “Hi…errr, Mrs. Flumbum was it? What can I help you with?”

 

She was a short, elderly lady and looked up at me with almost tears in her eyes and said, “Is it true?”

 

“Yeah,” I said shaking my head affirmatively then thumbed over my shoulder, “I'm afraid so, there isn't anyone here smart enough to…”

 

“Nooooo…I meant is it true you can repair my piece of furniture? It is extremely valuable, you know? It originally came out here from New York via a river boat to St. Louis then from there…”

 

I rolled my eyes, “…Wait! Lemme guess…and from there to here in the back of a covered wag…”

 

“Nooooo,” She drawled out, “It came out here in a baggage car on one of the first trains to cross the Great Plains , of course.”

 

“Welllll, of course, Mrs. Flumbum,” I said with elevated spirits and interest. “I had completely forgotten about that one.”

 

In this case, Mort's table fit into none of those three categories for as far as I could tell from looking at it, it was a Duncan Phyfe original and it was in perfect condition.

 

I stood there, with my hands in my pockets; afraid to touch it.

 

“Where'd you get this table?” I asked incredulously, “Do you reali…wait! I actually have a better question…are you seriously thinking of sending,” I raised my voice one octave, and pointed with a very stiff forefinger, “ This table to,” I raised my voice two octaves, “college with your daughter! ? Do you have any idea what college girls do on tables? Don't you know they can do things on tables you should be having nightmares about? My God, Man! This table won't make it through the first week!” I raised my voice three octaves, “ This fine table will probably be in a dumpster two days after she joins her sorority!

 

Then I took a moment to regain my composure and spent that amount of time to look the table over for any obvious signs of damage.

 

I looked at it from this angle and then another. I tipped it a little here and there and twisted it on its axis to check for weak legs and stretchers. I looked for split rails or skirts or maybe areas where the finish was wearing away. I couldn't find a single thing and backed away from it shrugging my shoulders.

 

“Well, Mr. Mortimer Bentley-Miles the Third, I don't see anything wrong with it - what is it you find to be a problem?”

 

“My good Man, that is just the point, there is nothing wrong with it and I intend for it to stay that way. As I told you, this table has been in our family for ages and the possibility of it ending up in a dreadful state is of paramount concern to me. You see…I want you to make a copy of it.

 

Having come from that area I'd often heard about a dance called the Virginia Reel but up until that point I'd never done one before. I'm not even sure I did it right, but I'm positive I reeled.

 

Then, halfway through it, I screeched to a halt and said, “Heyyyy, wait just a stinkin' minute here…YOU'RE PUTTING ME ON. Did Brad or Bob or maybe even Harlen put you up to this little caper?” I looked out the window again for anyone using binoculars and wearing headphones. “Just so you know,” I said patting him down for a wire, “I got some really sharp tools in here so you'd best be fessing up!”

 

“Sir!” He said, brushing my hands away, “I assure you this is no ‘caper' . I am here on a legitimate business venture and I want you to copy this table.”

 

I'd also heard that our Southern women would occasionally get the vapors…well, I think I had me one of them, too.

 

Petty soon we arrived at a deal and as I watched Mr. Mortimer Bentley-Miles the Third leave the shop's driveway I could've sworn I saw someone ducking down behind the neighbor's fence.