I stood in the beautiful old barn, the only female under fifty, along with six hundred grinning, gesticulating, enraptured men surrounded by the thing they felt most passionate about—woodworking. Woodworking doesn't particularly interest me. Its this thing my husband loves and always talks about. This thing that fills my garage with saw dust and piles of wood. This thing that keeps him standing in the cold, on a concrete floor in January til 2 a.m. This thing from which emerges something beautiful, personal and completely unique. I'm familiar with the vocabulary woodworkers use. I know words like hand plane, jig saw, dowel and spokeshave. I know the difference between a dovetail and a miter joint but that's about it. Road trips to Iowa and displays of hand tools don't particularly get my pulse racing, but meeting
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