Dining table

The table spent a life in a workshop. Great-grandfather had built it that way — thick quarter-sawn oak, a thicket of fasteners, too heavy to move twice without thinking about it. Keep it forever, or let it go: you feel guilty either way.

I wanted to honor the original: the stance, the ledges, the legs proud of the top. I did not want to honor the weight. A table that cannot fit a new space does not live on. It waits in a garage or gets listed. That is not sentiment. That is logistics.

Disassembly first. Then resurfacing, so the grain could be read again. The old fasteners came out. In their place: hand-cut lap joints and mortises, fitted to carry the structure. Screws only for the keystone board and the tabletop — metal where the piece still asks for it. Knockdown-ready, so it comes apart, travels, and goes back together.

Danish oil on the oak. The shop is gone. The table is not.