filled with the Holy Ghost. Josepe’s
word—now that, that is solid as oak. And Josepe tells me you are a fine shipbuilder from a good family. That is all I need
to hear.”
Mendiola anticipated a period of unprofitable adjustment. But that was not the case, not even in the first days. Miguel’s
experience at the shipwright’s in Lekeitio translated well to his new duties. Miguel had worked with quarter-sawn oak when
building ships; he was acquainted and comfortable with the planing and joining and finishing of wood.
The construction of boats is a marriage of utility to function, with the conservation of space and weight being key. There
was little need for ornamentation or the fashioning of the wood into pleasing and comforting forms. Making furniture was about
little else. But the young man impressed his new boss with his indefatigability and, as an unexpected bonus, with his creativity.
Mendiola, hands darkened to sepia by years of applying stain, started Miguel’s lessons with the construction of a traditional
Basque chest of oak, with heavy hinges and an ornate flap lock. After a look at the plan for the standard measure ments, Miguel
confidently set about building the chest.
“It won’t look like a boat, will it?” Mendiola needled.
“No, but it might turn into a very attractive bait box,” Miguel answered.
When Miguel returned to the shop with sturdy oak timbers one day in the first week, Mendiola commented on their size and potential
for larger furniture pieces.
“I thought you’d like it,” Miguel said. “I know I’m new here, but I found this huge oak with a little fence around it next
to that assembly building, and I thought I should go ahead and cut it rather than go all the way up into the mountains looking
for timber. People made a fuss, but I got it down anyway.”
Mendiola stuttered in panic before grasping Miguel’s joke. He elaborated on the story in each of the tabernas he visited that night, commenting that he was sure he was going enjoy working with the new man.
After mere weeks, Miguel stopped reading the printed designs for the furniture and began creating works of his own vision.
“Where did you get the idea for the lines of this?” Mendiola asked Miguel after he finished a chair that had an appealing
bend to the back supports.
“When I was felling the tree,” he said.
To Miguel, an arching branch might ask to be the arms for a rocker, and stout bole wood sought to become the central pedestal
for a dining table. The cypress, with its delicate, persistent scent, called out to be a drawer for clothes or the lining
of a chest. The wood also seemed to speak to those who purchased the furniture. Miguel would incise a delicately curved notch
in the arms of a chair that invited hands to rest there, or he would rout a bevel on a tabletop that insisted that all who
passed must drag their hands across the edge.
Mendiola found his net income rising because of Miguel’s growing clientele. In turn, Miguel discovered a job that suited him
even better than shipbuilding. He could be productive, creative, and expressive, and be gratified that his work would last
long after he was gone. He inhaled the smells of fresh wood chips and sawdust and varnishes and stains, not fish. And the
ground had finally stopped rolling beneath him.
The txistulari , playing his small black flute with his left hand while beating his tabor drum with the right, created more sounds than seemed
possible for one person. The woman on the accordion joined in, especially for the jotas , along with a boy who finger-drummed a tambourine. They provided music, without stop, all afternoon and evening at the Sunday erromeria , attracting nearly everyone in town.
Families arrived together and danced, sometimes three or four generations at a time. Grandfathers executed the steps they’d
mastered sixty years earlier as little ones squealed in their arms. Old quilts and canvas
word—now that, that is solid as oak. And Josepe tells me you are a fine shipbuilder from a good family. That is all I need
to hear.”
Mendiola anticipated a period of unprofitable adjustment. But that was not the case, not even in the first days. Miguel’s
experience at the shipwright’s in Lekeitio translated well to his new duties. Miguel had worked with quarter-sawn oak when
building ships; he was acquainted and comfortable with the planing and joining and finishing of wood.
The construction of boats is a marriage of utility to function, with the conservation of space and weight being key. There
was little need for ornamentation or the fashioning of the wood into pleasing and comforting forms. Making furniture was about
little else. But the young man impressed his new boss with his indefatigability and, as an unexpected bonus, with his creativity.
Mendiola, hands darkened to sepia by years of applying stain, started Miguel’s lessons with the construction of a traditional
Basque chest of oak, with heavy hinges and an ornate flap lock. After a look at the plan for the standard measure ments, Miguel
confidently set about building the chest.
“It won’t look like a boat, will it?” Mendiola needled.
“No, but it might turn into a very attractive bait box,” Miguel answered.
When Miguel returned to the shop with sturdy oak timbers one day in the first week, Mendiola commented on their size and potential
for larger furniture pieces.
“I thought you’d like it,” Miguel said. “I know I’m new here, but I found this huge oak with a little fence around it next
to that assembly building, and I thought I should go ahead and cut it rather than go all the way up into the mountains looking
for timber. People made a fuss, but I got it down anyway.”
Mendiola stuttered in panic before grasping Miguel’s joke. He elaborated on the story in each of the tabernas he visited that night, commenting that he was sure he was going enjoy working with the new man.
After mere weeks, Miguel stopped reading the printed designs for the furniture and began creating works of his own vision.
“Where did you get the idea for the lines of this?” Mendiola asked Miguel after he finished a chair that had an appealing
bend to the back supports.
“When I was felling the tree,” he said.
To Miguel, an arching branch might ask to be the arms for a rocker, and stout bole wood sought to become the central pedestal
for a dining table. The cypress, with its delicate, persistent scent, called out to be a drawer for clothes or the lining
of a chest. The wood also seemed to speak to those who purchased the furniture. Miguel would incise a delicately curved notch
in the arms of a chair that invited hands to rest there, or he would rout a bevel on a tabletop that insisted that all who
passed must drag their hands across the edge.
Mendiola found his net income rising because of Miguel’s growing clientele. In turn, Miguel discovered a job that suited him
even better than shipbuilding. He could be productive, creative, and expressive, and be gratified that his work would last
long after he was gone. He inhaled the smells of fresh wood chips and sawdust and varnishes and stains, not fish. And the
ground had finally stopped rolling beneath him.
The txistulari , playing his small black flute with his left hand while beating his tabor drum with the right, created more sounds than seemed
possible for one person. The woman on the accordion joined in, especially for the jotas , along with a boy who finger-drummed a tambourine. They provided music, without stop, all afternoon and evening at the Sunday erromeria , attracting nearly everyone in town.
Families arrived together and danced, sometimes three or four generations at a time. Grandfathers executed the steps they’d
mastered sixty years earlier as little ones squealed in their arms. Old quilts and canvas
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