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The Zany Woodpecker
In our U.P. woods we often hear a soft tap, tap, tap, a sound lost to most people today. Even here in the quietness of the forest near Lake Superior, one must listen closely to catch the woodpecker’s gently tapping as he searches the bark of a tree for food. But al-most everyone is familiar with the rhythmic hammering cadenz of a woodpecker telling the world that he is happily impressing his mate nearby.
At the driveway leading to our home in the woods, a handsome woodpecker sign points the way to the house. My husband Claude carved the sign. I am a wood-carver’s wife. Happily he taps and hammers away as he carves wonderful creations. My husband is a woodpecker too!
Before retiring, Claude spent a lifetime making cavities in steel for industrial dies and molds, but now he carves in wood. Com-pared to tempered steel, Claude says, even ironwood, our hardest northern tree, is soft.
Claude’s objects of art are always of his own design. He’s an original, refusing to copy anything, unwilling even to duplicate one of his own works. And he will never, never paint over wood! “The true artist is nature itself,” Claude tells me.
Often I’ve asked Claude to carve me something practical, like a bowl or beautifully carved spoon. In our township, my friends still use wooden spoons carved by their Finn husbands or fathers, spoons that have lasted for years. I wanted one, too, but had to beg several times before Claude grudgingly agreed. When he had finished, he said, “Here is your order, Madam, but I made it only because I loved you.”
Claude would much rather surprise me. Sometimes, he will make a sign from rough white cedar. His favorite wood is a slightly curved slab, which he polished until it shines, then carefully draws his pattern on it.
Instead of simply carving letters in the wood, he chisels away unwanted material to raise the name and design from the surface. People have to accept this unusual, ornamental motif, often with tree branches adding a special effect. Seeing his work for the first time, some will ask, “Did you glue those letters on that board, Claude?”
“They will have to figure that out for themselves,” Claude tells me slyly.
I’m ashamed to say I don’t always appreciate Claude’s vague, artistic ways. Often curious about a project, I ask questions and gain only obscure answers. But I will be right there in his shop when I hear his tap, tap, tap.
“Is that going to be a bowl?” I ask.
“Hmmmm,” he replies.
“If that’s going to be a bowl, it will not be deep enough,” I tell him.
“Maybe it will not be a bowl,” he says.
“You’ve got that off center,” I warn him. “It will be a crooked thing.”
“I’m not yet sure what this will be,” he answers.
“You’re not sure what you’re making?” I ask incredulously.
“No,” he says, “The wood will tell me.”
At such times I find it best to avoid a collision between two quite incompatible minds, so I anxiously wait until the carving is almost finished. Even then, I irritate my artist with questions and suggestions that are probably stupid: You might consider polishing that surface; or, Are you carving a pattern on the rim? Why is the bowl tilted to one side?
“Is anything not titled in this world?” he answers.
“But it’s all out of proportion,” I protest. “Who will appreciate this thing?”
“Someone will,” he tells me. “And if not, so what? Maybe one of our eleven children will like it.”
I know one of them will. All of our children are delighted with their father’s creations. As one daughter said, “We can’t wait until Daddy gets very old and his art gets really crazy!”
One of his creations Claude named Longnose. It is sculptured in beautiful Osage orange wood. The finely grained piece was well cured from lying for years on Cully Gage’s farm near Kalamazoo. There is a natural gloss to Osage orange, a very heavy, hard wood that is a carver’s delight, and it needs no preservative.
Reactions to Longnose certainly vary when friends and visitors see it for the first time. Some begin to twitch their noses when they look at it for a while. Others seem bothered by an itch. Then, there are those who tell us they feel as though their nose is growing. Many just say “Oh,” and look puzzled. A few sneeze at it. A few oddballs laugh outrageously but appreciatively, they rub Longnoses’s bald pate, stroking its smooth brainless head. One person told us that looking at Longnose brought a soothing feeling like that coming from meditation.
Claude may choose wood growing on our land, but always his carvings are unique. One carving is a bowl made from native white cedar with its handle forming an oddly shaped flute. He said while carving this he was reminded of our children when they practiced to master that fine instrument. Some of Claude’s wood comes from unusual places. One day, a man brought an eighteen-by-four-inch piece from an oak beam that had been salvaged from an old hotel in St. Louis, Missouri, Claude carved a fish from that narrow beam: not just an ordinary fish, but one leaping from the waves. The carving expressed a bold, happy, contagious joy for life. People feel good when they see it.
Another day, after a good meal, Claude relaxed in his chair and said, “I’ve chosen a section of that beautiful Osage orange wood Cully Gage gave me and am carving a nice bowl in the form of a duck.”
Later, inviting me to his shop, Claude showed me the duck bowl he was carving. It had two heads but one tail, and a large egg polished to perfection lay in the center. One of the heads, obviously the male, had its mouth wide open, seeming to announce his satisfaction and his wild love for his mate. The female was looking at her age, seemingly surprised at what she had produced.
There is always meaning behind Claude’s art, though it may be lost to the casual observer.
Many times I had admired the fierce Indianhead signs that mark points of interest in our Gogebic County. Carved from rough boards, the signs are designed to attract tourist interest. Several times
I hinted that Claude should carve me one of those Indian chief’s, but he always refused. “You know that I don’t want to copy things, Amy,” was his excuse.
Then Pete Hautalla came to our door bearing a battered old plaster Indianhead. It was huge, at least 30 inches across. Pete told us it had fallen from the wall in his restaurant. “My customers miss this guy,” he said.
Pete asked Claude to make him another from wood. “I’ll pay you good,” he said. “Want money now?” And he took out his checkbook.
Hesitating for awhile, Claude finally agreed. For several weeks he searched for just the right slab of pine. Then he carved for many weeks, copying carefully the plaster Indian’s features. Although happy with Pete’s generous compensation, Claude told me, “I will never, ever copy anything again. Never!” But he did. Whether it was the fish dinner in Pete’s restaurant given in appreciation for Claude’s work, I don’t know, but when the priest of the local Catholic Church came to our table and asked Claude if he would carve him an identical copy of the Indianhead, Claude said, “Yes, Father.”
Not only that, Claude decided to carve two Indianheads; one, he said, for money, the other, for love. Or was it one for God and one for Amy?
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