Pear #1

It is the eve of my 39^th birthday. In one year and one day, I will enter a new decade. I felt a similar bit of excitement when my third decade was approaching. Having been married and divorced in my second, I welcomed 30 with nothing but appreciation for being out of my 20s.

I’m still grateful.

Forty, though, is another level. “Extra,” as those currently in their second decade and those clinging to the hipness still present in their third might say. I’ve heard many, mostly women, say that turning 40 was when they started running out of effs. They stopped caring about the opinions of others in the way that we so often and heavily do in our earlier decades. Rumor has it that it only gets better, meaning our effs keep falling away and eventually disappear in our fifth and sixth decades and hopefully our seventh and eighth and beyond.

In these last few years of my third decade, along with the hint of dwindling effs, I’ve also found myself seeking out two things that I have sacrificed to time: joy and community. There is, of course, the joy I find in the everyday. Petting the furry family member who challenges me to get out of bed without disturbing her in her awkward sleeping position. Greeting my beloved. The first sip of coffee. A good conversation at work. Parking the car and signaling the end of the day’s major responsibility. The feeling of pajamas. Petting the furry family member who challenges me to get into bed without disturbing her in her awkward sleeping position. Bidding my beloved good night.

There is also, of course, the community I find in the everyday. Stop lights, offices, checkout lines, and coffee shops are rarely places I recognize in the moment as communal spaces, but there I am, doing the exact same thing as everyone else around me. Waiting for the light to turn green. Attending meetings. Holding my groceries. Deciding which overpriced indulgence will satisfy a temporary want. Among many with whom I will never share a conversation, I do share an experience.

But there is another joy and another community, the kind that we seek out because it has been missing. We feel the void and look to fill the void.

This is how, one year and one day before my fourth decade, I find myself sitting with some Brasstown Carvers and holding the basic outline of a pear.

Richard, the carver in charge, has been shaping wood into animals longer than I have been alive. For somewhere around a year, close to the amount of time I have been working at the John C. Campbell Folk School, he has also become an integral part of passing on one of the trademarks of the school’s beginnings. First a demonstrator in the Craft Shop, where he spent hours shaping creatures cut by carve by carve by cut, he has recently taken on the role of teacher. On Thursday nights, he welcomes work study students, staff, and local folks to try their hand at the craft.

Richard is the type of man who tucks in his flannel shirt and calls his daughter’s son his “grandbaby.” He is the type of man who leaves the “g” off words like “darlin’.” He is also the type of man who is embracing social media, telling me months ago, “I’m teaching the work studies how to carve and they’re teaching me how to use Instagram.”

Everybody loves Richard, and Richard is the reason I decided to try my hand at the craft, too.

He comes prepared with a variety of outlines for beginners, cut from a band saw (I think). He also brings examples of the finished pieces as a guide. Among them are trees and dogs and pears. I choose the pear because it seems my most practical introduction to getting the feel of a carving knife, which he also provides, along with the fingertip of a glove. The latter will protect my thumb while the other four fingers steer the handle down, stripping away thin slices of wood. I recognize the movement immediately.

It’s the way my mom taught me how to peel a potato.

I quickly learn that much like editing a piece of writing, it’s easy to get carried away with one part of the shape I am trying to form. One curve. One indentation. I mention this to Richard not long into my first pear.

“Yeah, we call that the sweet spot,” he says with a laugh.

There are two more longtime carvers in the room. Helen is focused and a quiet, calming presence. Carolyn steps away from her work to check on me twice and tries to help me understand how to cut into the stem. She also offers a bag of homemade peanut brittle to everyone in the room. Both of these women carved their way into a group that was originally formed for men. I am sitting among herstory.

A few of the other carvers enjoying conversation and brittle have brought their own projects and kits. One friend is working on owl-shaped napkin rings. Her dad was a carver and his tools are the ones that are helping her to learn. Another woman shows me her cat. She has been carving for “about 6 months” but her work and the photo of her granddaddy or great granddaddy (I can’t remember which) on the wall of the Woodcarving Studio are proof that it’s in her blood. Her dad is a longtime carver, too, who keeps carving in spite of Parkinson’s disease.

As I peel the pear, I am learning stories around me. A former work study student has come back to Brasstown for something like an internship from a local potter. Others before her have done the same and they’ve all been lovingly nicknamed “Yard Hippies.” A former host who came back to assist during Winter Dance Week and spend time visiting friends has also taken on some caretaking responsibilities with her parents. Her mom likes to cuss.

This is joy. This is community.

Two hours after I first held the basic outline of a pear, I am confident that it is no longer a pear, but a malformed jug. The curves you might normally see on the fruit are more angled, less juicy. A little bit of sandpaper won’t fix it, and that’s okay. Everyone in the room is encouraging. As the woman with the cat told me, “If you don’t believe there are all different kinds of pears in the world, I’ll take you to the grocery store.”

As I show Richard my first official piece, I tell him I found the sweet spot.

It’s more than the carving.