Every May, the same thing happens. Phone rings, voice on the other end says, "I know this isn't what you usually do, but..." Then they tell me what they want for their mother. Or what their husband wants for their mother. Or what their daughter wants for theirs.
Tell you what — these are some of the better calls I take all year.
The Mother's Day commission list
We don't advertise it. Doesn't need to be advertised. Past clients tell their friends. Their friends call. We fit what we can fit. This year, there are five projects on the bench:
A jewelry box for a woman in Sharon. Walnut, soft-close hinges, fitted velvet for ring slots. Her son commissioned it. He grew up in the house, and the box is supposed to fit on his mother's dresser the way the Larsen jewelry box fit on her mother's dresser fifty years ago. He brought a photograph. We're not copying it. We're aiming at the feeling.
A cutting board for a woman who runs a vineyard up in Cornwall. Maple, end-grain construction, branded with her vineyard name on the back corner. The branding iron came from a guy in Pennsylvania who makes them on commission. The cutting board took eight hours. The branding took five minutes. Both mattered.
Two matching picture frames for a pair of sisters in Lakeville. They wanted the same frame, made from the same board. We milled both from one piece of cherry that had been sitting in the shop for a year. The frames will hang in two different houses thirty miles apart and contain photos from the same Christmas dinner forty years ago. The sisters told me the story over the phone. I wrote it down.
A small writing desk for an English teacher in Salisbury who is retiring this June. Solid white oak, hand-cut dovetail drawer (yes, hand-cut — this is a desk that's going to be used every day for the rest of someone's life), a single drawer with felt liner. Her husband is paying. Her husband called me back twice to say "are you sure that's all I owe you." I'm sure.
An heirloom-quality cribbage board for a grandmother in Hollowbrook who plays every Tuesday with three friends at the diner. Walnut and maple inlay. Her granddaughter commissioned it. It's eight inches by four inches and took twelve hours. I will probably never get paid what those twelve hours are actually worth. That's fine.
Why we do these
These projects pay less per hour than our usual work. They also slot into the days between bigger jobs — a cribbage board can come together while a kitchen's glue is drying. They keep the shop loose. They remind me why I went into this trade and not into selling cabinets.
They also build something we don't talk about much: real loyalty. None of that's why we do it. But it's not nothing, either.
The grandmother in Hollowbrook will recommend us to her son when his kitchen needs work. The English teacher will mention us at the next school board meeting. None of that's why we do it. But it's not nothing, either.
The constraint
We can fit five or six of these in May. Not fifty. If you're calling about one and you're calling on May 4th, the answer is "next year" — not because we're being precious, but because we're booked. The folks above you on the list called in March.
If you're thinking about something for next May, write it down now. It'll be on the list when the time comes.
What Annie's mother gets
She gets a small wooden tray for the breakfast table. Walnut, with rounded handles. It's been on the bench for two weeks. She doesn't know about it yet. I told her I was building something for the shop. She believed me, mostly.
She's been Annie's mother for thirty-two years. Worth the time.