This past spring, I renovated my garage to make an outdoor office and woodworking shop (unbeknownst to me until very recently, Buckley was a fellow appreciator of the garage study).
While mediocrity at the keyboard and table saw is the most I can hope to achieve with either in the short-term, this was a project — okay, is a project; such things are never truly finished — that demanded the best of me. It is one that, in retrospect, calls for a moment of gratitude as well: Surveying the walls and drawers from my desk today, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of the result absent the generational inheritance of tools, shop expertise, and counsel bestowed by my grandfathers and dad.






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