By Andrew MoleI WALKED into John Raccanello’s backyard with plans to produce a slab redgum dining table – complete with chairs – and was in no rush to get things finished.So fully expected to have that project in the ute and headed home in four or five weekends.My father had been a gifted guardian of the vanishing skills of the craftsman; and had, patiently, tried to pass his love of perfection (and the time it took to achieve it) on to all ofhis five children.None really listened.A few years ago I sat in John’s little backyard shed and pondered the marvel of tasks as complex as hammering a nail – straight.Or using a drill – straight.Being armed with a saw and piece of timber carefully measured and marked, to set about cutting the required pieces – straight.And got it wrong, wrong and absolutely nowhere near the mark.Yet all the time being encouraged by John; and all the time hearing him speak the very same words with which my father tried to interest, even inspire, me all those years ago.John and I have something special – our own little men’s shed for two.No need for committees, no need for votes; just the master and his apprentice.So can I now hit a nail straight?Kind of.What about that drilling? It’s a lot better.Sawing is still a challenge but God bless electric saws (although I have become something of a dab hand with a Japanese saw even if it was made in China).John has been retired much longer than he planned.
A successful builder on the NSW south coast his working life ended when he fell through a roof and landed in a wheelchair.I probably should also be pensioned off according to assorted colleagues and family members – but am not going down without a fight.But in our shed we make a strange symbiotic team – it is mostly set up for John’s height in his wheelchair so I do a lot of sitting; and am also the chief fetcher and carrier when we are on the job.It also makes for some lighter moments, such as the time I whipped over to Bunnings to get something which John assured me was in aisle 14 at eye height.Well, even allowing for a man’s look, it wasn’t.Two or three calls later and we were both getting a little testy about who was right – until the penny dropped.John’s eye height is on par with my belt height.He still laughs about that one.And yes, he still gets to laugh at me from time to time.But he has also endowed me with a confidence (something I had never lacked) in a world where I was ranked utterly useless.
For example, my wife’s wooden breadboard was dropped the other day and the end brokeoff.Andrew circa 2016 would have pitched it in the bin (or fire) and simply bought another one.But last week, armed with my personal array of clamps (plus John’s big one he had been searching for) and glue I put it back together.
I have fixed one of two chairs for another friend (but will need John for the second).And I am dangerous with a tube of superglue, repairing all sorts of things that previously would have meant calling a guy or getting something new.In fact our partnership has become so successful that little shed where it all began has disappeared, been replaced by a giant shed in which our dreams have become seriously large.The shed is still being outfitted, all the stuff jammed into the original shed being spread out; a new table saw has appeared and more stuff will be coming in the next few months.On the way to this massive expansion, I have produced everything from cutting boards for all the daughters and daughters-in-law (made of six timbers and treasured by them all); a truly big timber circle, about two inches thick and more than a metre across, used by a daughter atop an ottoman to make it a coffee table.There has been an astonishingly good Thomas the Tank Engine for a grandson, a wooden bike for a granddaughter; two large treasure chests for granddaughters in Sydney (completewith soft closing lids engraved with their names) and assorted other goodies.And the timber for that redgum table has finally been ordered, enough for two big ones (my wife’s and one daughter’s) and a smaller one (another daughter).This table was once the delusion of a dummy but is now truly within reach – so long as John is sitting right beside me.The funny thing, as much as I will get a big kick out of the reactions when I hand them over to their new owners, the only praise I am really looking for is John’s.And maybe some of that gets to my father as well. The other master craftsman in my life who resigned himself to working alone in his shed.
