Recently I have settled on driftwood as the ne plus ultra craft material. It is a pleasure to gather, first seemingly cast at random upon the beaches, then through time and study one comes to know the certain contours of the shore, especially the craggy stretches inaccessible to the casual comber, that routinely disgorge a great and varied haul from which one may select one’s treasure with discernment. Of course I will reveal none of my reliable stretches. Maps are for sissies.
A keeper piece of driftwood has been pounded and tumbled smooth, fleeced of its arboreal spines by the sea. It could be mistaken for a petrified thigh bone, a worn ax handle, a pestle, a familiar weapon. Often it looks like a lovely component for a sailboat, a tiller maybe, though perhaps it was once. It asks to serve.
Recently I came home to find that my roommate Ian had devised a perfect chair from the driftwood. He took a long, gnarled piece with an inspiring bend and buried two thirds of it at the very spot in the yard that is best for watching the sun set. Then he attached a seat and a back, with an extending bit for an armrest.
It is marvelously low and gnomish and comfortable. And then Ian planted a fine cluster of river stones with a tuft of turf to serve as footrest. All together, a buried chair and grassy stool fit for two.Ian Edwards crafted, Ian Caldwell approved.