The Lathe-Meister

John A. Styer
The Lathe-meister
P. O. Box 250, North East, Maryland, 21901-0250

john@lathe-meister.com

410-287-8844

Man (me) at work (play) in Colonial garb at Elfreth's Alley in Philadelphia, with my mini-lathe.

Roughing out a bowl in the garage on the Rockwell lathe I got from my father.

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I have been turning wood for over a decade. Doing business as "The Lathe-meister", I market my work in various Art & Craft Shows throughout the Mid-Atlantic region and in local specialty shops. My work has been displayed in several galleries. I also writes poetry and short stories. I have published ‘coffee table booklets’ Herbs, Huh?, The Way Things Could Have Been, and Compleat Short Stories.

A Little Background

Several years ago I’d never have dreamed being busy with an income-producing craft/art hobby. That was when I was adding ‘lathe’ to the end of my Christmas list (our family traditionally makes lists for each other – it saves the aggravation of shopping, that many men of the male/guy/masculine persuasion suffer). One year I wasn’t predisposed towards making such a list. So, I just put down ‘lathe’. Of all things, my wife bought me one! At the time I viewed it as a ‘fun’ machine, on which to make some whimsical things. Had I known my future involvement with this fascinating tool, I’d have bought myself one years earlier.

For the under-initiated, a lathe is an instrument to which you can attach a piece of wood and give it a whirl. Belt driven by a motor, it causes the wood to spin wildly. In fact, that’s part of the initiation process. In short order, one learns to appreciate rapid spinning, much more than wild spinning. By applying a sharp tool to the wood, while it is rapidly spinning, usually anywhere from a couple hundred rpm to 3-4,000 rpm, the wood can be shaped into myriad designs.

Other Personal Interests:

Writing

How Long Does It Take To Make One Of Those?

Do you mean…

not plant the tree, but find the wood,

just ‘see’ the piece, (as if I could)?

to find a highly figured burl,

a crotch, an eye, or pearly curl?

And once I spy it, perhaps buy it,

inventory, store, and dry it?

Then saw or cut it, possibly I kiln it,

glue, imbue with fill, or drill it?

You mean, that once I’m satisfied

it’s stopped the warps, checks, cracks, once dried?

And mounted on the lathe, to turn it,

(which takes much practice, just to learn it;

and then employ a gouge, or two,

or use a skew, which I don’t eschew,

to mold it, shape it (what’s your pleasure?)

by all means, I’m sure to measure,

then sand it smooth, please wear your mitts,

from coarse to fine, 10,000 grits,

then braze, or burnish, paint, or polish,

(the goal: enhance, and don’t demolish)?

Is that your question, start to end,

how long’s that path, its way to wend?

Or do you merely want to know how long it turned?

Ten minutes, or so.

I have been associated with a loose-knit group of poets, who meet the first and third Tuesdays of each month, at noon. We call ourselves Lunchlines. We give assignments to ourselves for each meeting, share them, and also generate a collaborative poem on the spot. We compiled a booklet a couple of years ago, titled "Lunchlines...a mixed brown bag of poems, Vol. I". As I write this very word, Volume IV (my, how time has passed!) is ready to go to press in time for April National Poetry Month. It is available through the Cecil County Arts Council (cecilart@iximd.com). Following are some examples of my exercises:

The following poem, written for the Tourism Department's poetry contest, names as many locations in Cecil County, Maryland as I could find.

Cecilonia

Andora arrived Earleville, not expecting

her Blake for a few minutes.

Feeling a little Bohemia, and looking very Sassafras,

(she had just Colora her hair and was wearing

something ‘special’ from Fredericktown of Brantwood),

she passed the time with a glass of Port Deposit,

and a serving of Elkton and Frogtown

from down on the Farmington,

while giving the West Nottingham

to a game of Blueball.

Perryville and Glen Farms were at Warwick

with Calvert and Cecilton, both Frenchtown,

who won with four consecutive shots in the

Cayot’s Corner, the Cathers Corner,

the Kilby Corner, and the Barnes Corner.

Game, set, Mechanics Valley!

The Principio reason the Farms boys lost

was they Hacks Point too many of their shots,

but perhaps the Bay View of Andora’s

Chesapeake City had something to do with that.

Or maybe her inopportune sneeze. Octorara!

Her Fair Hill was the Appleton of Charlestown’s eye,

but, nevertheless, she wasn’t waiting around

until Rising Sun for him to arrive,

Pleasant Hill compliments or not.

I mean, what would be the Turkey Point in that?

Sometimes he could be a pain in the Elk Neck.

Just because he had taken the Liberty Grove

to buy her a Rock Springs

didn’t obligate her to Spencerville

all her time with him.

Belvidere and Leslie had raised no fool.

She had to bring home the Bacon Hill,

from her job down at the Elk Mills,

one of a string of part time jobs

she has had, from Arnold Point to Zion.

She was hoping her current job would

Leeds to much Providence,

unlike some of those others

which were either a pain in the Lombard,

or truly Susquehanna.

She doesn’t Cowentown to any of that.

And, by Conowingo (and the grace of St. Augustine),

she was Blythedale leaving now,

Singerly like a Childs through the Woodlawn,

before that North East blows in.

Poems don't have to rhyme. Here's one that doesn't even try, on the subject of March.

March

Forward, March!!!

You march right in there and demand a raise!

March your butt over here and sit, buster!

March comes in like a lion.

Forgive me if the word doesn’t

conjure up positive images,

but I’m less than impressed

with its inclusion in the English language.

It is harsh; abrupt; brusque.

So many words are more colorful; poignant; alluring.

Consider sashay.

Forward, sashay!

Or ramble.

You ramble right in there and demand a raise!

Or stroll.

Stroll over here and sit your butt down, buster!

Or Iliad.

Here we are, the 1^st of Iliad. Iliad came in like soup.

© John A. Styer, March 1, 2005

This one is probably self-explanatory. The assigned subject was actually ground hogs, but I, quite naturally, went askew:

Ground Hog [Day]

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard, necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. Several minutes into the chore, I saw brilliant lights, flashing inside my eyes, but I felt no pain as I fell unconscious.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard, necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. As I was cleaning off the edge of the sidewalk,my foot slipped, throwing me under a passing bus.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard, necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. My wife decided to help by shoveling the sidewalk, as I did the driveway. The snowplow never saw her, as it buried her in its torrent.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard, necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. Before I even starting breathing heavy I felt a crushing pain in my chest and left arm.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard, necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. But a large tree had fallen across the driveway.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard, necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. But it was snowing and drifting faster than I could shovel.

I woke up this morning to a raging blizzard, necessitating strenuous exercise with a snow shovel. Little did I know that the holes in my glove would lead to frostbite, complications thereof subsequently resulting in the amputation of my right arm.

I woke up this morning, noticed it was 4:31AM, and rolled over and went back to sleep.

© John A. Styer, February 1, 2005

A Bulwer-Lytton Treatise on Electricity

Bert McLaren impatiently thrummed next to the teller's window.

Next in line was Amy Feldman, bouncing little Aaron on her hip, trying to console him as he was cutting another tooth.

Behind them stood wide-eyed (and lavishly tinted with hotrod metallic blue) Crystal Lawrence, fawning over bedenimed Donnie Adkins, to whom she had become engaged…..last night…..late.

In strode Ralph Swayze, wearing his personalized union jacket, a scarf over his nose and mouth, waving an air-gun in one hand, and holding a plastic(!) bag in the other, announcing "This is a stick-up! Don't nobody move! Fill this bag with money, Karen(!)!"

Bank Manager Chuck Dardon, Ralph's high school coach, rolled his eyes, tapped the steel barrier button, buzzed 9-1-1, then called out to Ralph, who promptly wet himself.

It was this moment that the bald tire on Jake Warner's pick-up, limping along in front of the bank, decided to explode.

Electricity was in the air.

© John A. Styer, May 7, 2002

More poems later. Now on to other personal interests:

Herb gardening

At one time I had one of the largest collections of herb gardens on the East Coast - by my own admission. One garden was divided into four groups: grey & silver, culinary, teas, and flowering, surrounded by tall herbs (like Jerusalem Artichoke). As I expanded the gardens, and the herbs themselves expanded, I found myself with less and less time to devote to them. Then we moved to a home that greatly limits my herbal capacities. So now, except for a handful of herbs, the legacy to my 'herbalist' years is my booklet, entitled "Herbs, Huh?" (available for $6.00).

Singing bass

I sang bass for a few short years with a praise group called "Gabriel's Fire". We recorded one CD, titled 'We Will Worship', in which I have a brief harmonica solo. Our leader took a position near Nashville, and the rest of us are all doing different things now. However, I still have a few of those CD's available, for those of you who would like to appreciate some excellent inspiring and relaxing music. They are only $12.00.

Fishing

An old adage states that "the time spent fishing is not subtracted from your lifespan". I wholeheartedly endorse the principle, whether it has foundation, or not. That said, I confess that last year, not only did I not go fishing once, I didn't even get a fishing license. I endeavor to reverse that anomaly this year, and regale you with at least one 'whopper' story.