| INSIDE THE BOOK |
........... He smiled through three days of whiskers, said who he was, and eased himself down on a
deadfall just right for sitting. Work boots, rolled pant legs, faded shirt and hunter's hat with
orange earflaps spoke plainly about this man -- my neighbor, I soon learned. He talked of the
mountain and the land and the river in a quiet, easy way. I so enjoyed listening to him that I soon
forgot the work and lost myself in this spellbinding account of Massanutten Mountain and the
Shenandoah River.
"Now take this land right here, for example." he said with a sweep of his hand, "No need to buy
things for a building here. These pines are just right for what y'need. Building stone aplenty, too.
Look here. Like this one." He picked up a shoe box sized field stone, gray in color. "See how it's
the right size and shape for stacking into piers. If you open them up you'll see all the colors. Red,
blue, green, white, black, and more. Make a pretty fireplace, 'f I do say so."
Well, naturally a log cabin had crossed my mind but not seriously. It seemed well beyond my
skills – but I could easily see how that stone could be easily stacked, it being so flat and the right
size. Warren continued, "That big pine yonder could make you two sill logs and the two beyond it
would finish up the sills.” Then he built the walls and cut windows and made a fireplace all without
leaving the deadfall and without buying anything except.”...a little mortar for the stone work and
chinking between the logs later on." Looking back, I think even Warren got caught up in the
endless possibilities of what he was saying. I know that I was so deep into those word pictures
that my thoughts raced, the adrenaline flowed, and by the time we both came to I was near
gulping for breath. But I had the picture. It absolutely would be a log cabin and it was already
started, crystal clear in my mind, finished, and sparkling there overlooking the valley. The first log
down was the one I was sitting on -- down, ready to bark, and begin seasoning. I looked at it and
smiled. I was actually sitting on my building material. Quail High was started.
The first time I remember working with green wood, I made a slingshot. I might have been five
or six years old in rural Mississippi. I still can’t resist cutting a perfect fork when I see one, thinking
surely it will make a good slingshot stock. Dozens of this fantasy stock have accumulated in the
wood shed at Quail High waiting to be fashioned into slingshots, hooks, handles, and pegs.
Dozens more are finished and installed or displayed in the buildings. The sight of them still gives
me satisfaction and pleasure. They cost nothing, the quality is superb, last a lifetime, and there is
only one of each in the world. They cannot be duplicated any more than a watercolor painting
can be reproduced exactly. Now it is a recognized craft in its own right and named green
woodworking.
deadfall just right for sitting. Work boots, rolled pant legs, faded shirt and hunter's hat with
orange earflaps spoke plainly about this man -- my neighbor, I soon learned. He talked of the
mountain and the land and the river in a quiet, easy way. I so enjoyed listening to him that I soon
forgot the work and lost myself in this spellbinding account of Massanutten Mountain and the
Shenandoah River.
"Now take this land right here, for example." he said with a sweep of his hand, "No need to buy
things for a building here. These pines are just right for what y'need. Building stone aplenty, too.
Look here. Like this one." He picked up a shoe box sized field stone, gray in color. "See how it's
the right size and shape for stacking into piers. If you open them up you'll see all the colors. Red,
blue, green, white, black, and more. Make a pretty fireplace, 'f I do say so."
Well, naturally a log cabin had crossed my mind but not seriously. It seemed well beyond my
skills – but I could easily see how that stone could be easily stacked, it being so flat and the right
size. Warren continued, "That big pine yonder could make you two sill logs and the two beyond it
would finish up the sills.” Then he built the walls and cut windows and made a fireplace all without
leaving the deadfall and without buying anything except.”...a little mortar for the stone work and
chinking between the logs later on." Looking back, I think even Warren got caught up in the
endless possibilities of what he was saying. I know that I was so deep into those word pictures
that my thoughts raced, the adrenaline flowed, and by the time we both came to I was near
gulping for breath. But I had the picture. It absolutely would be a log cabin and it was already
started, crystal clear in my mind, finished, and sparkling there overlooking the valley. The first log
down was the one I was sitting on -- down, ready to bark, and begin seasoning. I looked at it and
smiled. I was actually sitting on my building material. Quail High was started.
The first time I remember working with green wood, I made a slingshot. I might have been five
or six years old in rural Mississippi. I still can’t resist cutting a perfect fork when I see one, thinking
surely it will make a good slingshot stock. Dozens of this fantasy stock have accumulated in the
wood shed at Quail High waiting to be fashioned into slingshots, hooks, handles, and pegs.
Dozens more are finished and installed or displayed in the buildings. The sight of them still gives
me satisfaction and pleasure. They cost nothing, the quality is superb, last a lifetime, and there is
only one of each in the world. They cannot be duplicated any more than a watercolor painting
can be reproduced exactly. Now it is a recognized craft in its own right and named green
woodworking.
