New desk for an old building, Part 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

View of trees at Seminary Park. (Photo courtesy of City of Bloomington Parks Foundation)

The Lumber: Counters

The desk is built almost entirely from solid wood, most of which grew within 100 miles of Bloomington, Indiana.

The counters were made using quarter-sawn red oak from a tree that grew in Bloomington’s Seminary Park, original site of Indiana University. Construction of the seminary began in 1822, and classes were first held three years later. In 1883, after a devastating fire, the campus was moved about a mile north to Dunn’s Woods, its present location. Since the 1960s, the site has been a park.

On May 25, 2011 severe storms ripped north-eastward along the Bloomfield Road, felling numerous trees, among them the Northern Red Oak from which these counters are made. The next day, crews from the City of Bloomington Parks and Recreation Department were at the park to clean up the mess.

The massive root ball (May 26, 2011). Photo courtesy of City of Bloomington Parks Foundation.

The Parks and Recreation Department operates a lumber recovery program that urban forester Lee Huss humorously refers to as “No Log Left Behind.” Instead of sending usable logs to landfills or chopping them up for firewood, the department has them sawn and kiln dried by Robert Woodling of Good-Woodling Woods in eastern Monroe County.

Old friends Robert Woodling and Mark Longacre with the log, summer 2011

Sawn 2 inches thick, the boards from the Seminary Park oak were first air-dried, then spent two months in the kiln. After reaching the desired moisture content of 8 to 10 percent, they emerged from the kiln the Sunday after Thanksgiving.

 

Robert Woodling, left, with Lee Huss, City of Bloomington Urban Forester, with oak fresh from the kiln (November 27, 2011)

Each of the taller counters is made from a single board with the grain following in an unbroken line along its entire length. The rough-sawn boards were a little over 12 inches wide, though they had a few knots on the pith (the center of the tree) edge and some stretches of inner, or living, bark at the outer edge. After judicious sawing, I left a couple of minor knots (facing the working area) and inner bark (facing the public), because I wanted to honor the tree with a visible record of its size. It is relatively rare today to find a board of quarter-sawn oak 12 inches wide.        

12-inch wide board, planed. The freckle-like figure is typical of quarter-sawn red oak.

 

The lower counters are made from the same tree, but for these I joined several narrower boards to obtain the necessary width.

 

The Lumber: Main desk

The frames and pilasters are made of plain-sawn white oak from Joe Davison’s Spencer mill. Joe sources hardwood logs within a 100-mile radius of Bloomington and specializes in highly figured hardwoods such as curly cherry, fiddleback maple, etc.

The boards I used were narrow and rather rich in defects. Joe considered them too poor to sell, so he threw them in for free with a load of poplar I was buying. As with much of the material in this desk, using these boards required considerably more labor than would have been required with graded lumber. But the frame parts are relatively narrow, and I was able to use them by carefully planning each board’s use, concealing characteristics such as spalting and knots, which are typically considered defects, in inconspicuous places.

Joe Davison in his shop

The panels are all made of quarter-sawn oak from veneer mill backer boards purchased through Brown County-based Quarter-Sawn Flooring. The panels are housed in grooved frames, which allow them to expand and contract with changes in relative humidity (though quarter-sawn lumber tends to expand and contract only minimally across its width and length). I applied the decorative moldings, which were made by Martinsville-based Indiana Hardwood Mills, after most of the finishing steps were complete.

With the exception of the section facing the west staircase, which is made of quarter-sawn oak from Robert Woodling’s own woods, the baseboards and plinths are made of scrap from other jobs. Most of this stock originally came from the Frank Miller Lumber Company of Union City, Indiana, an internationally respected supplier of quarter-sawn oak. Frank Miller Lumber buys 99 percent of its hardwood lumber from privately owned lands within a 500-mile radius of Union City.

The drawers are made of red maple from Good-Woodling Woods, a hundred-acre stand that Robert Woodling and his wife, Linnea Good, keep in FSC-certified classified forest, managed for timber and wildlife.

WTIU Weekly Special segment on the desk

See the Weekly Special program “A Walk in the Woods” in its entirety

Next time: Building the desk

New desk for an old building, Part 1

 

“Did you restore it?” asked a friend, on hearing my name in connection with the desk standing beside her. We’d just run into each other for the first time in several years.  I had not restored the desk; I’d designed and built it.  Some woodworkers might have resented her question, but I took it as a compliment: evidence that my work had fit right into place.

 

Part 1: Design

The project began in the fall of 2010. When a full-time security guard was added to the staff of Bloomington’s Ivy Tech John  Waldron Arts Center, it  became apparent that the lobby would need a larger reception desk. Paul Daily, the center’s Artistic Director, hoped to find a desk that would fit the period architectural character of the lobby in the 1915 building, originally constructed as City Hall.

In addition to this aesthetic directive, there were a few other requirements.

• The desk would need to occupy a minimum of space, since the floor of the lobby is relatively short and narrow, with staircases at each end.
• Its finish would have to be durable, since the center hosts frequent receptions.
• The desk would have to be constructed in such a way that it could be disassembled and moved out of the lobby if necessary.
• It would also have to comply with various ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) requirements.

Since the desk was for an educational institution, I decided to view it as a project that could educate members of the public about using locally produced and repurposed lumber, along with other aspects of the contemporary artisanal furniture business.

Research

Elizabeth Schlemmer, Genealogy Library Manager at the Monroe County History Center, searched for records of the lobby’s original appearance. Although she could not find images, her volunteer assistants, Lee Ehman and Randi Richardson, discovered an article in the Bloomington Daily World from 1915 that includes a general description of the space.

 

Elizabeth also searched for images of reception desks in other local municipal buildings of similar vintage but found none.         

Lacking a local model, I searched online for “1915 reception desk” and came across a site specializing in pictures of early 20^th-century offices. I printed out a variety of images from 1915 to 1917. To my eye, only one was right for the Ivy Tech John Waldron lobby, the original use of which, as City Hall, would have called for restrained dignity rather than humble functionality or pretentious display. At a meeting with Ivy Tech staff members Paul Daily, Julie Anne Roberts, Trina Sterling, and Eric Reynolds, there was consensus (even before I voiced my preference)  that the desk at the left side of this French image had just the right aesthetic:

 

Of course, this new desk would require a few changes to make it practical for 21st-century use–a pair of gates to keep out curious children; angled ends to ease the flow of between-class traffic in the lobby’s limited space; and some type of structural element at the outside corners to signal the counter’s protrusion to visually impaired individuals who rely on a walking stick for guidance.

 

 

Coming next: The Lumber

There’s nothing like a good tool

This miter by courtesy of Lie-Nielsen, via Jim Ferrell.

Thanks, Jim! It may not be perfect, but it’s better than I could have done without the plane you gave me several years ago.

David: 1, Goliath: 0.

Terry and Rob at Black Lumber

Do you like the idea that your friends and neighbors can have gainful employment instead of spending their days at the local branch of Work One–or worse, rioting in the streets? If so, before pressing the Checkout button at Amazon or some other online retailer, pick up your phone and call a local store to compare price and availability.  You may be in for a nice surprise.

The notion that buying local costs more than buying online or from big-box retailers has  such a grip on our national consciousness that few of us even bother to give locally owned businesses a chance.  Some even use stores as a convenient means to check out a couch, try on a dress, or test a tablesaw before making the actual purchase online.

Yuk.

Who do you think your local retailers are–fat cats preying on unsuspecting rubes? Local stores charge what they do to cover the costs of being in business–rent, taxes, employee wages, utilities, and insurance, not to mention the investment necessary to keep that precious inventory on hand.  Whether or not they make a profit at the end of the day, many of them–many of us–stay in business to keep dedicated employees in jobs.

An especially repugnant innovation is an i-phone app allowing instant price comparisons between inventory at Amazon and, say, Kleindorfer’s Hardware and Variety Store in Bloomington, Indiana. Standing in the tool aisle  (hopefully without Brian, Andy, Victor, Scott, Geno/Luigi or Calvin looking over your shoulder–and you’d better pray it’s not Pork himself waiting on you), you can scan the product’s code and find out whether it’s cheaper online. If all you care about is getting the lowest price, by all means, buy that product through Amazon. But don’t be surprised when you next show up to check out a snow shovel or a sander only to discover that your favorite store has gone out of business due to lack of sales.

Yesterday I had the heartening experience of paying less at a local store than I could have if I’d bought online. Amazon’s best price for the sliding compound miter saw I needed: $549 plus shipping.  Price at Black Lumber : regularly $549 plus sales tax, but currently on sale for $499.  Heck, I would have paid the regular price or even somewhat more just to support a local business, but I was thrilled to get a bargain.  Sure, I had to pay sales tax on top of this, and by so doing I made a modest contribution to some of the state-provided services I take for granted. 

I’d like to see Black Lumber–family-owned since the 1920s–stay in business, along with Kleindorfer’s, Bloomington Hardware, Bender Lumber, and many other locally-owned purveyors of goods I could just as easily buy online. The people who own and run these stores are my friends and neighbors, integral members of our community. Knowing that I actually paid less by buying local in this case was the icing on the cake!

Handcut Dovetails Versus Heirloom Tomatoes

Which would you have chosen–a talk about Arts and Crafts furniture followed by a live demonstration of how to cut dovetail joints by hand, or an heirloom tomato tasting at the Farmers’ Market?  

The people who run the T.C. Steele State Historic Site are as grateful as I to all who forsook yesterday’s plein air offering of the 2011 tomato harvest to attend, instead, a talk on Arts & Crafts furniture. (And there were a lot of you!)

What an honor, to have a temporary workbench set up next to Theodore Clement Steele’s art supply cabinet in the dream studio he was finally able to commission when he was almost 70, in 1916.

I’m especially thankful to Jim Krause–composer, musician, sailor, athlete, indefatiguable community member, and friend, who photographed the occasion and provided the following images. And also to Mark Longacre, my partner, and his 13-year-old son, Jonas, who handled the door prize tickets and drawing with aplomb. 

 

Those are original Steele oil paintings in the background.

 

Steele's supply cabinet in the background here

Thanks to Kelly Mehler for suggesting the "Benchtop Bench" article by Jeff Miller in Fine Woodworking magazine

Success! (the moment blessedly captured by Jim Krause)

Small world

What do 19th-century painter T.C. Steele, Harvard philosopher Ralph Barton Perry, and Kurt Vonnegut have in common? I discovered some fascinating connections while researching a story about Steele and the Arts & Crafts Movement for Bloom Magazine.

1

Richard Lieber

1869-1944

Cousin of Hermann Lieber, who was T.C. Steele’s close friend and patron

Founder, Indiana State Parks system

Great-grandfather of Frederic Lieber

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lieber

2

Hermann Lieber

1832-1908

Bookbinder from Dusseldorf who opened and then operated H. Lieber & Company Art Emporium in Indianapolis

Premier patron of T.C. Steele

(Photo is reproduced from The House of the Singing Winds at the first link below)

http://shop.indianahistory.org/SelectSku.aspx?skuid=1000220

http://maxkade.iupui.edu/indianapolis.html

3

Theodore Clement Steele

1847-1926  

Painter

Founder of the Portfolio (often called the Portfolio Club) in Indianapolis, an organization for artists and writers

http://www.tcsteele.org/site.asp

4

Bernard Berenson

1865-1959

Art historian

Brother-in-law of Ralph Barton Perry, the grandfather of Rachel Perry, author of T.C. Steele and the Society of Western Artists: 1896-1914 (Indiana Press, 2009), and so…

Great-uncle of Rachel Perry

http://www.itatti.it/

5

Ralph Barton Perry

Philosopher at Harvard University

Brother-in-law of Bernard Berenson

Grandfather of Rachel Perry

http://www.giffordlectures.org/Author.asp?AuthorID=137

Glass and cabinetry designed by Brandt Steele for sons of Hermann Lieber

6

Herman P. Lieber

Son of Hermann Lieber

In 1909 Brandt Steele designed a set of stained glass windows for Herman’s home. Brandt’s design appears on page 20 of Traces of Indiana and Midwestern History, Winter 1994.

Herman P. was also the grandfather of Peter Lieber, aerial photographer (see below)

Robert Lieber and Carl Lieber

Sons of Hermann; patron and friend, respectively, of T.C. Steele’s son, Brandt

Circa 1905, Brandt Steele designed a cabinet for Robert Lieber’s home. The design appears on page 20 of Traces of Indiana and Midwestern History, Winter 1994.

7

Brandt Steele

Brandt Steele (Photo from Traces of Indiana and Midwestern History, Winter 1994)

Son of T.C. Steele and his first wife, Libbie Lakin

Artist and designer

For an informative article about Brandt, see “Work Worth Doing: Brandt Steele, Designer and Potter” by Barry Shifman (Traces of Indiana and Midwestern History, Winter 1994; available from http://shop.indianahistory.org/ 

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=35956249

 

 

8

Herman B Wells

(1902-2000)

11^th president of Indiana University

Chancellor of Indiana University

Founded the Indiana University Press

http://www.iupress.indiana.edu/product_info.php?products_id=794746

http://newsinfo.iu.edu/OCM/releases/wellsrem.htm

9

Bernard Perry

Hired by Herman B. Wells as Founding Director of Indiana University Press

Father of Rachel Berenson Perry

http://www.iupress.indiana.edu/pages.php?pID=27&CDpath=13

10

Frederic (Fritz) Lieber

Great-grandson of Richard Lieber

Cousin of Kurt Vonnegut

Friend of James Capshew

http://www.nrhillerdesign.com/press/pdfs/Kitch_Oak_SalvagedGlass.pdf

Peter Lieber stands in front of a painting by T.C. Steele

11

Peter Lieber

Aerial photographer

Cousin of Frederic (Fritz) Lieber

James Capshew stands next to a bust of Wells

12

James Capshew

Professor of History and Philosophy of Science

Friend of Fritz Lieber

Biographer of Herman B Wells, Indiana University’s visionary educator (forthcoming from the Indiana University Press)

http://www.iupress.indiana.edu/product_info.php?products_id=794746

13

Image from alternativereel.com

Kurt Vonnegut

Author and artist

Cousin of Fritz Lieber

Kurt’s parents, Kurt Sr. and Edith, were invited shortly after their wedding to join the Portfolio (often referred to as the Portfolio Club), an arts related organization founded by T.C. Steele.

Forthcoming biography of Vonnegut by Charles J. Shields: http://us.macmillan.com/andsoitgoes

14

Rachel Berenson Perry

Artist and art historian; author of T.C. Steele and the Society of Western Artists:1896-1914, published by the Indiana University Press, of which her father was the Founding Director

Member of the Portfolio (often called the Portfolio Club) in Indianapolis, an organization for artists and writers founded by T.C. Steele.

http://www.iupress.indiana.edu/product_info.php?products_id=84462

PPT

Published work rarely acknowledges the contributions of everyone involved. The reasons for this are many, most of them benign.

But a recent case deserves mention. The feature story about architect Christine Matheu’s house in the July/August 2011 issue of Old-House Interiors includes a shot of “cabinetmaker Nancy Hiller” standing with Christine in the kitchen she designed for her mid-century ranch.

In my shop, whenever feasible, I assign each job to a particular person. Think maximize pride in work, not to mention minimize mistakes caused by miscommunication. Building Christine’s cabinets was officially the task of Daniel O’Grady (seen above, in the parking lot of Hinkle’s Hambugers, celebrating an especially impressive six-figure odometer reading achieved by his Volvo).

This is not to say that Daniel was alone in producing and installing those cabinets. but he certainly deserves to be recognized for the central role he played in realizing our client’s vision, as well as for his unfailingly excellent work in general. I wish he had been with us in that published picture.

Employee of the decade

Image by Kendall Reeves from A Home of Her Own

Daniel left my shop over four years ago. He moved back to Milwaukee, where his parents and sister are based, and where his partner, Evelyn, had returned to conduct research for her doctoral dissertation. (Thanks a lot for taking him away, Evelyn.) He opened a shop of his own in an old industrial building and ran his business while earning a degree in Architecture from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.  

A man and his lady. Or should that be the other way around? (Photo by Pat and Terry)

 

My abdominal muscles have atrophied considerably without the daily workout I used to get from laughing at Daniel’s wicked wit.

 

Daniel! I have hereby rectified the omission! (With apologies to William Wright and Old-House Interiors.)

You can see the story by clicking on the Old-House Interiors cover at the right of this post.

 

At least two others who worked on Christine’s kitchen deserve mention: carpenter/job manager Ben Sturbaum and craftsman Ted Stahly, who meticulously veneered the doors, drawer faces, and fixed panels.

What’s it worth?

A Harris Lebus sideboard from DK Antiques, UK

A reader submitted a comment on American Bungalow Magazine’s blog in response to my story about defunct English furniture manufacturer Harris Lebus. She had seen a sideboard similar to one of those pictured in the article and wondered whether it was worth the price being asked.

I am not an appraiser, I responded, and I am always struck by the notion that one can actually say what a piece of antique furniture is worth, considering the basic fact that value is a social construction. Unless you are buying furniture primarily as a financial investment (and let’s be honest–few of us are), antiques are worth whatever you are willing to pay; the art of valuing such objects comes largely through the stories we tell about them (Who made this chair? Where was the maker trained? Was the artist’s grandfather a famous explorer? Perhaps the piece once belonged to a famous family?), and those stories are subject to change, depending on memory, documentary evidence, etc.

The sideboard that inspired my American Bungalow article is a good case in point. When the owner bought it, he was led to believe–by an honest and well intentioned dealer who did not at the time know anything about Harris Lebus–that it might have been made for Liberty. The Liberty connection made the piece seem eminently worth the price he paid, although the same price struck him as excessive once he learned about the piece’s actual provenance.

But here’s the thing. As a professional furniture maker, I ask myself whether anything about the piece changed because of its lack of connection to Liberty, and of course I answer “no.” It’s still a knockout in terms of design. It’s still well made (though not all Lebus pieces were so well constructed). It’s still a truly functional piece. And I think to myself (and am suggesting that you, if you have read this far, also think to yourself), Perhaps we should reassess our notions of value with respect to Lebus artifacts. This goes not only for pieces made by Lebus, but by other makers, too.

When it comes to putting a price on objects of beauty and utility, have confidence in your taste. Professional appraisers in all fields have their place, but their methods tend to be inherently conservative–that is, based on documentable examples of past sales. Every so often someone comes along–it has to be someone wealthy enough to bust the valuation ceiling–and pays far more for a piece than anyone ever thought reasonable. Suddenly we permit ourselves to view that piece, and potentially others by the same maker, as more worthy of our attention and esteem than anyone would have imagined possible. But isn’t there something a little embarrassing in the notion that we need an expert (or a celebrity) to validate our own sense of value? Isn’t this a bit like the emperor who had no clothes?

Obviously if you’re spending someone else’s money, buying primarily for financial investment, or investing on an organization’s behalf, you should engage a professional appraiser. But in ordinary circumstances, the kind most of us face, if you love an object and can afford the price being asked, by all means buy it. Don’t be overly concerned about what it’s worth. Many–and quite possibly most–dealers, like the majority of contemporary artisans, are not attempting to fleece you, but simply to make a living and cover the costs of doing business. If people give you a hard time for supposedly having paid too much for a piece, don’t let them get under your skin. Just tell them that to you, the piece is worth what you paid. By doing so, you will join a movement to rethink the value of artifacts made by those (whether the Harris Lebus Manufacturing Company or your neighbor) who furnish the homes of ordinary people, rather than those of rare wealth.

Thanksgiving Surprise

Cabinet replacement, Phase I

On the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving, my partner, Mark, and his 12-year-old son left for their annual week with friends on the east coast. “Call me when you get there,” I shouted after them. “And have a wonderful time!”

Most Americans celebrate Thanksgiving with family and friends. For me, Thanksgiving week has become a chance to effect major household transformations without anyone around to object. It’s a somewhat risky habit, as the house belongs to Mark. In fact, he built it himself.

Since we’ve been together, I’ve longed to redo the kitchen. The existing cabinets had been custom made by a respected local shop, and Mark was quite proud of their craftsmanship. No doubt about it—those cabinets were beautifully constructed and finished. But the design? Oh-so generic. Full-overlay doors and drawers, partial-extension drawer slides, cheap contemporary hardware, standard recessed kicks. And while there were lots of cabinets, their design made shockingly inefficient use of the available space. Finding pots and pans required the skills of an amateur spelunker. The shallow storage over the fridge might just as well not have been there, considering its complete uselessness. The actual storage capacity of the 45-degree corner cabinets—upper and base—was far less than the cubic space the pair occupied. We could surely sell the cabinets and counter, which were in excellent shape and would give someone else decades of service.

This year, I would carry out Phase One of the stealth cabinet replacement. I would begin conservatively, removing just a single base and upper at the end of the run, so if Mark was completely against my plan, I could put them back.

To complement the house’s simple farmhouse architecture, I based my design on a cabinet I’d admired in a 1927 millwork catalog. I worked surreptitiously in my spare time over several weeks in the fall. While I was at it, I decided to make a much needed bookcase for the living room and change the living room paint color.

As soon as Mark and his son were safely en route to the airport, I began emptying shelves, removing cabinets, and pulling living room furniture away from the walls. I had planned my week meticulously, as there was much to accomplish.

Day One: Remove kitchen cabinetry. Replace with new cabinet. First coat on living room ceiling and walls. Remove living room baseboard on two walls to make space for built-in bookcase. Move bookcase from shop to house.

Things were going remarkably well on Day One when the phone rang in the late afternoon. “Nancy,” said the voice, “this is Amy, Mark’s sister. Did you remember we’re coming to stay tonight?”

Of course I hadn’t. When they arrived at 10:30 pm, I had beds made and clean towels ready. I apologized for the devastation—the kitchen table, buried under a mountain of dishes, family photographs, and assorted other contents from kitchen and living room cabinets, was anything but welcoming—and shepherded my guests to bed through the maze of displaced books and furniture.

As they drove away the following morning, I imagined one of them must be muttering, “Mark sure knows how to pick ‘em.”

Day Two: Second coat of paint. Attach bookcase, fit bookcase baseboard, top, and decorative trim. Cut living room baseboard to fit and nail in place. Final coat of finish on kitchen cabinet drawers.

Day Three (after work): Final coat of finish on bookcase shelves and kitchen cabinet shelves.

Day Four: Install bookcase shelves. Install kitchen cabinet drawers. Fit kitchen cabinet doors.

Day Four’s agenda also included grocery shopping, cleaning the living room and kitchen, and preparing dinner for a friend who would arrive at 7. In mid-afternoon, I started some brown rice on the stove and got to work marking out mortises on the new cabinet doors. I had sprung for a set of traditional butt hinges, which came with matching slotted-head screws.

With my 29 year-old Workmate set up on the back porch, I chiseled the mortises, screwed on the hinges, and hung the left door. I would fine-tune the fit once I had the other door in place.

Being right-handed, I have always found working on right-hinged doors a challenge. It’s tricky at the best of times to hold a door with your good hand while drilling and inserting screws with the other. On this occasion, the everyday awkwardness was compounded—first, by my position, balanced between a stepladder and counter, and second, by the slotted-head screws, which are finickier to install than phillips-heads, especially when using your “bad” hand. With the top screw part-way into its hole, and steadying the door with my right hand, I laid down the screwdriver and reached for the drill.

The first screw gave way, allowing the door to fall as I watched in horror. The door hit the edge of the stove, then bounced against the handle of the rice pot before clattering to the ground. The pot leapt off the stove, spilling its steaming contents like a turgid, pale-brown lava flow onto the beautifully varnished white oak floor. My first concern was for the door. Would it be broken? There was no way I could complete the Thanksgiving Surprise if I had to make a new one. And then there was the floor. Would it be gouged?

Thankfully, the floor had suffered barely a scratch, and the door was intact, a testament to its mortise and tenon construction. The pot, however, was totaled, and the dog got the rice.

The rest of the week went according to plan. The guys were scheduled to arrive home around midnight on Saturday. By early evening I had the freshly painted living room reassembled, the new bookcase filled, the house thoroughly cleaned, and the new kitchen cabinet stocked with its predecessors’ contents. Now my concern shifted from meeting my self-imposed deadline to the question of how my “improvements” would be received. Be rational, I told myself. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rank your concern that Mark might be seriously angry? It was unsettling to realize that I ranked this possibility as high as six.

Mark is not a control freak, I reminded myself, in an effort to avoid obsessing. Yes, he might be annoyed that I had substantially altered his kitchen and living room without permission. But I had a rejoinder at the ready. “Honey,” I’d protest, quoting a 1925 Hoosier Manufacturing Company ad, “the kitchen is the one room where a woman may have her way without consulting others.” (Never mind that he does most of the cooking.)

In the end, things were fine. He liked the living room color, no doubt relieved to have been spared the task of repainting the room himself. He agreed the bookcase was a good addition. As for the kitchen cupboard, he declared it beautiful, adding, “It makes the other cabinets look kind of stupid.” Music to my ears.

Special Guests Visit the Shop

I know what you’re going to think. What did Nancy have for lunch today? But I can assure you that today, as on all other days, I consumed no mind-altering substance beyond coffee at lunch. Still, on my way back to the shop, just as I prepared to turn into the driveway, I did a double take. A pair of stray dogs had just trotted onto my neighbor’s lawn across the street. If I was quick, I’d have a chance at catching them, calling the Shelter, and returning them to their home.

On second glance, I realized they were not both dogs; the larger one was a pygmy goat. The goat was about 18 inches tall, fat and healthy, his hair mostly white. The dog, a gray-browed male Jack Russell mix, had ribs and hip bones protruding dramatically and scabby sores all over his skin.

I stopped my truck and set the hazard warning lights, hoping the capture would be quick, since I was blocking the road in a bad spot. The dog was friendly enough; he walked right up to me with an ingenuous expression. I picked him up and set him in the truck bed, hoping to do the same with the goat. But the goat had other ideas. He whinnied in distress at being separated from his friend, yet he was not about to let me apprehend him.

I called to him sweetly. I approached him slowly, in a thoroughly unaggressive manner. I got down on all fours and even laid my head on the grass in a canine gesture of submission. (God only knows what the few passers-by must have thought on seeing a 50-something woman engaged in such behavior.) The goat, bleating half-heartedly, played coy. He ran alongside the neighbor’s fence, rubbing his back. He sprang sideways away from me, then took a few leaps forward in alarm.

Meanwhile, as I looked back at the truck to check on the dog, I saw to my horror that he was about to step off the edge of the tailgate, three feet above the ground. I rushed to stop him, but before I could get there, he leapt, and his emaciated body crumpled on the asphalt. It was painful to watch, but the dog was unfazed. I scooped him up gently and carried him back to the grass, hoping his return would attract the goat.

No such luck. Just then, my neighbor, Connie, pulled into her driveway. Although she had groceries to put away, she came over and tried to help. She went inside and found a jump rope, which she formed into a lasso and strove repeatedly to throw over the goat’s head. It didn’t work. We must have spent a good half-hour attempting to capture him.

Throughout this circus act, my truck was still blocking the road. Time for triage. I carried the dog over to the cab, set him on my lap, moved the truck into the driveway, and returned to the neighbor’s yard to resume the arrest.

By this time Connie was impatient to get her milk and other groceries into the refrigerator. Holding the dog as bait in one arm, I crouched down by her van and stayed still, hoping to lure the goat. After a few minutes, the goat ventured close enough that I was able to grab his left horn. I held on tight, and when Connie returned, she tied the jump rope around his neck.

The goat was not happy. He bleated and moped and refused to budge. But at least we had him! I needed both hands to control him, so I put the dog down. With Connie in the lead, calling, “Come on, goat!” and me pulling the jump rope with all my might, we tried to urge our recalcitrant prisoner towards my driveway. He set his front feet against the ground, locking his knees in protest and screaming bloody murder. When he realized strangulation was the only alternative to budging, he leapt forward a few feet. We proceeded across Connie’s lawn, then across the street, in this halting fashion. I hoped the dog would follow.

I dragged the staccato goat to my shop, put him inside, and locked the door behind us. He rocketed around the room in desperation, screaming and pooping everywhere, clearly convinced his end was nigh. Having just put the finishing touches on a delicate writing table, I was terrified by the potential for disaster. I grabbed some blankets and threw them over the piece, hoping the goat wouldn’t vent his anger by butting it to smithereens.

Where was the dog? I had expected to find him waiting loyally at the door. Now I was worried on his behalf. I ran inside and retrieved the goat, leading him with the jump rope, and counting on his plaintive screams to summon his friend. I could hear a dog barking in the distance. Following the barks, I rounded the corner behind the shop, dragging the stubborn goat and calling to the dog as sweetly as I could, given my mounting exasperation. It sounded as though he might be in the shed; I heard the echo of clumsy footfalls. Yes, there he was, clambering over the lawnmower, the stacks of plywood, the rotten old couch. I called and presented the goat, positioning him dramatically in the doorway like an action movie hostage, but the little dog continued stumbling around the piles of old junk. That was when it hit me—he couldn’t see or hear us. He was blind and deaf. As soon as he came close enough, I gathered him up with my free arm and proceeded back to the shop. Suddenly the goat was calm.

I closeted them in the bathroom and grabbed the cordless phone, donned my bifocal goggles, and looked up the number of a wildlife rescue place a couple of miles away. No answer. Next I called Animal Control. No answer there, either. Now I tried the Animal Shelter. After wading through the entire voicemail menu, I was relieved to hear a live human being at the end of the line.

“I have just spent three-quarters of an hour attempting to capture a dog and a goat that seem to be wandering around together,” I told the hapless individual at the other end of the line, my frustration undoubtedly audible.

“Is this Nancy Hiller?” came the response. By bizarre coincidence, I had reached my neighbor, who happens to be the head of public works.

“Susie,” I cried, “what are you doing answering the phone at the Animal Shelter?”

“I just stopped by to see if they needed help,” she answered. How lucky for us all. She dispatched a pair of Animal Control officers.

While waiting for their arrival I returned to the bathroom to check on my guests. The room now had a distinctly barnyard-like smell indicating the presence of an herbivore. The dog and the goat were lying next to each other by the door, perfectly content. I offered the dog some of my shop cat’s food, which he consumed ravenously. He lapped up the cat’s bowl of cream, then took a long draft of water. The goat would not eat; he was just relieved to have his dog back.

When the Animal Control officers arrived, I thought I should prepare them by explaining the animals’ co-dependent relationship, in the hope that they would not be separated. When I described the dog as emaciated, blind, deaf, friendly, and covered with sores, they exchanged anxious looks. “Oh no. This sounds like Harley,” one of them muttered.

Yes, it was Harley. Harley has diabetes and has recently been apprehended by these ladies several times. Mysteriously, the goat was new to them, which struck me as inconceivable given the bond I had observed. The goat was Harley’s ears and eyes, and Harley seemed to function as the goat’s existential protector.

I was sad to see them go. Their visit had been surreal—an interlude of comedy, as touching as it would previously have been inconceivable. Blessedly, the writing table was unscathed.

Harley looks deceptively large here, being in the foreground.