That Christmas my in-laws, who had been at the wood show with me, gave me a good geometry kit and my very own chip carving knife. I took out a book from the library, scrounged an old scrap piece of wood and started in. I quickly ended up with a dull knife and a frustratingly poor result. I put my kit aside, returned the book, and left it for what turned into years. I never did check out the club's meetings.
Years after putting it aside, I must have found my knife again and commented on it, because my lovely wife went out a bought me a new book on learning to carve. Either that first book from the library was written by someone who had never actually carved a thing in their life, or I had been misinterpreting the directions badly. I choose to believe it was the author's fault, never mind what they say about lousy carpenters. Anyway, with the new book, a new sharpening stone, and a block of proper wood, I was off to the races. Turns out it wasn't nearly so hard as I thought. Partly because of the book, partly because of the wood, partly because I could keep my knife sharp, I was quickly carving consistent lines of practice shapes.
For what came next, I blame my mother. When she starts a new thing, she doesn't start small and work her way up. She's barely grasped the basics and she's off tackling as big a project as she can think of. Her first quilt was made of denim and big enough to cover a queen-sized bed. I don't sew, but when I mention it, quilters say both the material and the size are quite difficult. I guess her idea is to make the learning curve as steep as possible, and by the end of the project, she's really good. It seems to work, because she's amazing. So, as I was getting bored of repeating lines of practice and starting to look for a project, it was ingrained in me to look for something big. The ideas in the book were unappealing, like scroll-saw patterns from the 90's. Flowers, horses, and family names on tissue boxes was not going to cut it. Sorry, that was lame. Anyway, I decided I would build a humidor for my father. While I was at it, I would build one for my father-in-law. That bit of sound reasoning comes from my father: Making two is barely harder than making one. Right.
I had practiced enough to produce a few good, consistent shapes. I had not practiced box-building at all. Ever. I have a bit of wood-working experience, but it was still the weak point in my plan. Hobbies are like renovations that way. You start one thing and it snowballs. But, I had my idea, so I ordered wood online, basswood for the carving and Spanish cedar for the lining. Another thing I had never practiced was creating and laying out a custom design. As it turns out, this is even more time-consuming than box building. At least the way I build boxes. I figure those cigar boxes together took between 150 and 200 hours to complete between building, designing, drawing, and carving.
Mom's method works. Bite off more than it looks like you should be able to chew, and if you manage it, your skills are way better than they would have been if you tried to slowly build. Of course, it could backfire, and you give up before you level up, but this past year I made a far more complex project, carving-wise, in less than half the time of one box. I'm still a beginner, as a quick Google Images search for "chip carving" will show, but I'm getting better all the time. My idea of a big project is changing too. Good thing wood is cheap.
It's funny how you can stumble on something that becomes such a big deal in your life. I was going along just fine without even knowing what chip carving was, and now I spend several hours per week on it. Thousands of people walked by that booth without more than a glance. Even if they stopped to check it out, most didn't ever try it. I walked by hundreds of other booths that day that didn't grab me. I wonder how many of these chance moments come to define who we become in the end. Who we meet, where we go, how much of it was just an accident that almost didn't even happen?
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