Patternmaker Free
Siri
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Employees in these careers need one or two years of training. Both on-the-job experience and informal training with experienced workers may be needed. An apprenticeship program may be a good choice for these careers.
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It all started on a recent trek home from doing the 9-5 selling my soulto the 'man' thing, when I happened to notice a yard sale in my rear-viewmirror. I say to myself "screw it, I never find chi-chi at yard sales"(in choicer expletives), and continue home. Besides, it was a Friday andyupster pal was coming over the following morning to play with that bubinga- the wood that launched a thousand slams in rec.norm - and I wanted toget a start on jointing it.
Next week, on Monday, the yard sale is once again going on as I againnotice it in my rear-view mirror. This time, however, something told meto turn around. I made a quick u-turn in the Dunkin Donuts pahking lot,and pull into the driveway. My first impression of the wares was that itwas the typical tchotchkas one always finds at suburban yard sales, butat least there were no kids' toys or baby furniture. So, I decided to getout of my bubba-mobile and have a look.
I walk into the garage, which right off the bat indicated to me thatit wasn't really a yard sale, but a garage sale. Out here in New England,we have several kinds of sales - like tag sales, moving sales, yard sales,garage sales, and I've even seen signs that read "Yard Sale in Basement"(but that was in Fitchburg, so it's no wonder). Anyway, I digress.
Inside the garage, I immediately notice some tools hanging on a pegboard.As I'm scoping them out, the owner of the place comes out and greets me.He's a friendly fellow, in his mid-70's, who, if he lived anywhere nearHollywood, woulda been a celebrity double for Burgess Meredith (but notas the Penguin). He sees me eyeing the tools and tells me that they'renot for sale, that they are his users. I'm sorta pissed since there's anice centering head from a Standard Tool Co. combination square hangingthere.
I apologize for checking out his tools, and walk around looking at allthe knickknacks of days long past (salt and pepper shakers really do comein an infinite variety) arranged nicely on two picnic tables. I'm aboutready to punt, and start to chant my standard mantra "I never findchi-chi at yard sales" when I notice a hollow auger and a wooden tapand die sitting on one of the table's benches.
I asked him how much, and he began asking me questions about them, tosee if I knew what they were. I was thinking to myself "hmmmm, he'seither starved for company or he must be thinking I'm a total post-Neanderthalmaroon what wouldn't know an old tool if it came up and nipped him in thearse." So, I answer his question, and then proceeded to the next roundby telling him a bit of the history behind each tools' manufacturer. Thisis when the game started to get interesting.
For some unknown reason I mentioned the word 'patternmaker'. When Idid, it was like correctly answering the Final Jeopardy question of "Theprofession of my long-dead father". I instantly became his long lostson, as he and I slugged it out trading patternmaker volleys in a gameof one upsmanship. He was totally amazed that I, being a 30-something-Chuck-Taylor-wearing-in-sore-need-of-a-shave-who-looks-like-he-oughta-be-tending-a-garbage-scow-for-a-living-'murican-male would have even a remote clue abouta trade that's all but dead.
He tells me about all the patternmaking that his father did while employedat a firm just down the road from where he lives. His father made patternsfor machinery used to process wool. He then tells me that his great unclewas also a patternmaker. The chat is going back and forth, and I'm thinking"OK, it's time to leave - don't want the poochie tinkling on the Sheratonsofa if I'm not home in time to let him out". I again ask him theprice for the two tools that I was interested in, and he says "20bucks." I counter with "American?" as I whip out a Jackson,and hand it over to him. But, he's not through talking about patternmakingwith me. He knows he's got a sucker on the line, and he's playing him forall he's worth.
This is when he decides to tell me that he has a patternmaker's chestthat belonged to his father. This is when I decide to say the hell withthe dog, my wife can clean up the puddle. I then start to probe him forthe particulars, and he responds with vague answers, but he tells me thatI can go look at it. I'm starting to get this throbbing sensation in mygroin area, imagining what's to come. But it was all premature since hetold me that we couldn't look at it then, that he was expecting a phonecall, and that I'd have to come back later to have a look. We agreed thatit be the following day, and finally bid each other good-bye.
My mind is going nuts, with visions of #56's dancing in my head forseveral hours, when reality suddenly hits. I tell myself to get a grip,that the chest will be crap, filled mostly with air, and that all he'llhave in the way of tools are rusted-solid Coe's wrenches, crappy cherryStanley levels, taps and dies, and the usual tool detritus I luck into.So, I set my expectations at that level, hoping that finding a #5 willbe a pleasant bonus.
I arrive at the guy's place the next day, and he greets me right away.He asks me if I'm ready, and I tell him it's time to rock n' roll. Thechest is in the garage down at his son's house, which is a short walk throughthe woods from where he lives. We're fighting the black flies, chit-chattingabout his acreage, when we have to cross a field of dog jigs and the creatorof them, right before the garage. We negotiate that successfully (if you'rewearing Chuck Taylor's, you learn early on to avoid dog crap), and proceedto the garage, with Fido endeavoring to introduce himself to my crotchand leg.
Inside the garage is a pile of stuff, all arranged about its perimeter.We move to one side of it, and he begins to show me the feared pile ofrusted Coe's wrenches, etc. Sure enough, I thought, it's as predictableas stink on crap that I'm gonna be offered rusted Coe's wrenches and cruddyStanley levels. They were all there, in their filthy glory, before my dejectedeyes. The view is salvaged somewhat by my noticing some old patterns hangingon the wall, so I give them a look and comment to the guy about what nicework his father did.
We turn a corner, and there's an oil-covered, beat-to-hell bench piledup with open end wrenches, screwdrivers, and a host of other junk thatall belong in the Land of Misfit Tools. But, on the bench is an Emmert'spatternmaker's vise. I scope it out, asking him if it's all there, includingthe near-impossible to find bench attachment which allows it to swing upfrom the face of the bench. It's there, as he demonstrates. I give thevise a closer look to see if the mounting bracket was broken and repaired,commenting to the guy that most are damaged one way or another. His wasn'tbroken there, but the face plate was cracked. He didn't know that it was,but it's a no-harm damage. He also has the original instructions for mountingthe vise. First time I ever saw them, and he later gave me a photocopyof them.
He then leads me to the other wall of the garage, finally to show methe chest. My eyes are sweeping across the floor trying to beat him toit. Thing is, my eyes shoulda been looking up, since he was fumbling witha lock that was chest-high. It's then when I first noticed the chest -there it was, hanging on the wall, with two raised panels on the front,looking like some 4' x 3' x 1.5' piece of furniture you'd have behind yourwet-bar to keep junior outta the drambuie and cognac. This is when it finallydawned on me that there was some real potential here; that this was noJohn Q. Pattern- maker we were dealing with. More like John Q. Rembrandt,I thought.
The lock was giving him a bit of a hassle, but he finally managed topop it free. The massive hinges creaked as the front of the chest swungopen to the right. I damn near fainted with what treated my eyes! A chestthat was virgin, jam-packed with every freakin' tool what ever went intoit. A chest that hadn't had a tool added to it in over 75 years. A chestthat you only dream about or find on the back page of FWW. To get an ideaof what this chest is like, imagine a functional, non-decorative versionof the Studley chest. This is it, with perhaps more tools in it than thatone has.
This chest wasn't made to be pretentious, just purely functional, withevery available space crammed with the tools of the trade - saws galore,3 sets of chisel (none of which are cranked, strangely enough), machinist'stools, bench planes, shrink rules, trammels, braces, drills, marking gauges,drawers filled with whatever, blah-bity, blah-bity, blah. And get this,there is even a mint Coe's wrench. There are two internal hinged doorsthat swing open to reveal even more tools. It was tools-a-go-go and I wasbooga-looing in my drawers.
The chest originally belonged to the current owner's great uncle, whowas a patternmaker at Simonds Saw and Heywood Wakefield (the chest evenhas his 15 year anniversary pin in it). When that guy died, the guy's fatherinherited it since he was a practicing patternmaker. He used it for years,until he retired in the mid-1960's. He took the chest and hung it in hisgarage where it remained, mostly unused.
For two hours it was tool-orgasm, as he and I talked about the tools,his father, and the state of the nation. Toward the end of talking, hedecides to ask me "well, what do you think about it?" I toldhim that I was just lucky to be able to see, touch, and experience thetools of his great uncle and father, and that I would kill to own it. Hethen asked me what it was worth to me. I answered that there are 3 waysto value it - one, which is the way that pains me to witness it as it happens,is the value of the tools as they are thrown to the wolves when the chestis pillaged for profit; two, the value where the sum is greater than theindividual parts; and three, the value as a family heirloom, which is impossiblefor anyone but family to assess. He indicated to me that he did want tosell it, but only for the right price and to the right person. I told himthat I would get back to him in a few days with my offer, what it was worthto me, after I had time to stew on it.
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