CLAMPS IN MY FAVORITE COLOR

All my life I have loved clamps.  Perhaps because my father loved them. Clamps -- those sturdy metal gizmos that are the magical difference between success and failure in the furniture repair world.  My father had clamps in all shapes and sizes, and used them to repair any piece of furniture that wanted repairing. Whenever I found a clamp at a yard sale, I would buy it as a gift for my father, knowing he would say, 'Sure!  I can always use another clamp!'

I miss my father.  I miss being able to bring him a chair all in pieces -- pieces of wood sitting abandoned on a sidewalk (that story later). I miss hearing him say, Sure, I can fix that.  Just bring it over!  I miss telling Joan that my father would be more than happy to travel to East Brookfield, Massachusetts, (and this was when he was 88 years old) to repair her son Michael's dining room table, and I miss Michael's grin when my father had, in fact, repaired that table that now looked better than new.  

No, my father was not a furniture repair expert.  He was an expert in repairing almost anything and everything, and he took great pride in doing so.  His expertise -- repairing the world around him, both physically and spiritually.  [He would say about now, Bethel, you're going a little too far!] His workbench, scarred and worn, wound all around the inside perimeter of the basement, a sturdy workbench set just at the height that he could comfortably work, day or night, whenever he was bored or had a spare minute, or wanted to lend a helping hand to someone who had given up hope of ever again hearing their favorite music box (yes, something that small) or using their grandmother's table again.  My father was a genius with his hands and his heart.

Two days ago, while the popovers were in the oven (see Popovers Again?), when I went to set the table, I noticed that the bottom edge of our newest dining room chair (not so new, admittedly), our only dining room chair with arms, had a damage at the front edge just under the seat (don't know what that piece on a chair is officially called, though my father would). How it happened, I couldn't imagine, but the bottom edge of the support under the seat had split and was almost ready to fall off.  In the past when such things happened, all I had to do was pick up the phone and call my father; or better yet, arrive at his cellar doorstep carrying the injured item.  But yesterday I turned plaintively to my husband and asked him if he still had the clamps that my father had left him.  And my sweet husband, never to disappoint, arrived after a few minutes with a long pipe with orange (my favorite color) clamps and a small plastic bottle of Gorilla Wood Glue. My father must have been smiling down from heaven when he saw my husband holding together the split piece of wood on the bottom edge of the chair's seat (below).

The Gorilla Glue, (not Guerilla Glue, which is what I thought I had heard him say) had been at room temperature for 24 hours. Here is my husband (right) carefully applying the glue and gently pressing the pieces of wood together, granted not on a workbench, but at my dining room table!

Above you can see the beautiful antique clamp attached to the chair. (My husband had protected the cloth seat with the blue plastic bag that had protected one of his New York Times from the snow and rain!)

 Today, removing the clamp from the chair . . . success!

Success engenders courage. With the same orange clamps, my husband took on another, more delicate project, again on the dining room table. The project: repairing an early 20th century plastic handle that had broken off of the handmade, turn-of-the-century French hutch which resides in our kitchen (the hutch, that is, without its broken handle.)

Gently, gently, he tightens the clamp as I hold my breath . . .

And here it is -- it didn't break!  And I think it will set correctly -- we'll know for sure in 24 hours!