Spoons from a Single Branch

My grandson is twelve and spends most of his time on screens. In March, when he came to stay for spring break, I took him out to my workshop and handed him a pocket knife and a piece of cherry wood. "We're going to make spoons," I said.

He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. But he sat down.

I showed him how to hold the knife safely, always cutting away from his body, and how to follow the grain of the wood. We sat on the porch, side by side, shavings falling on our boots. It's slow work. You take off a tiny curl at a time.

On the first day, he complained the whole time. On the second day, he stopped talking and started concentrating. On the third day, he asked if he could stay out and keep working after dinner.

By the end of the week, he'd carved a small, slightly crooked spoon. He sanded it until it was smooth as silk and rubbed it with walnut oil until it glowed. He gave it to his mother when she picked him up.

She uses it every morning to stir her coffee. He's asked me to save him a bigger piece of wood for the summer.