Grandpa’s Block Plane
by Don Dorn

At the doorstep of my 50^th birthday, I laid my eyes on my Grandfathers block plane for the first time today.  He died when I was six and I only have a vague memory of him sitting in a chair with his cane, but my older brother knew him well in his younger years and traveled with him on his routes as J.I. Case salesman in the 50s.  I’ve gotten to virtually “know” my Grandfather through my brothers travels with him.  He was the primary male role model for my brother during some of his impressionable years as my father was a WWII vet and got called back to serve in the Korean conflict.  Mom, “Chuck” and my sister stayed with her parents during that time.

Apparently, Grandpa was a bit of a carpenter and discovered that my brother was too little to see out the window on their travels.  He made a simple box out of a peach crate but at the same angle as the car seat and then upholstered it complete with full lines of fancy tacks.  From that day forward, my brother could sit squarely on it and see the world through the windshield at the same height as Grandpa.  Of course, seatbelts hadn’t even been invented, so any young parent who would perish the thought might consider that times were certainly different, and simpler. 

When Grandpa died, my mother kept his meager supply of tools in a trunk in our basement.  By the time I was eight or so, I discovered the treasures in the trunk but something like a block plane probably escaped the initial interest of a little tyke.  Our basement had an old workbench with a leg vise which gave me ample opportunity to clamp things all the way from its designed purpose of wood to anything of which I wanted to test crush strength.  The treasure box also had a brace and bit of which I must have made a thousand holes and undoubtedly some where they shouldn’t have been.   There was a bench plane of some sort and my first encounter with it was a blade that was probably set too deep and most likely dull.  I put it away quickly in favor of that wonderful thing that could make holes in anything.

From the point I returned the tools to the chest, I never saw them again.  I grew up not having much to do with anything woodworking as my father’s interests weren’t in that area.  Dad had about four screwdrivers, a pair of pliers and a hammer and I don’t think they really saw any other action than paint cans.  In fairness, short of a professional, I’ve never heard anyone that could play a trumpet like he did.  We all are given different abilities because I couldn’t play a note to win a million bucks.

I’ve been involved in woodworking about 10 years and for the past two, have somewhat turned into a neander.  Nothing against power, I’ve just seen great benefits of the dark side and yes, I have gone out to the shop simply to make shavings a time or two.  Anyway, my collection has grown somewhat and like most neanders, love my hand planes.  My brother, who is also a woodworker, has all of Granddads tools.  It’s the proper place for them based on their relationship.  However, I asked my brother if I could take Grandpa’s bench plane long enough to tune it up and return it as he is an “all power” woodworker, and I just wanted to handle it for awhile.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t find it, but for the first time, I did get to see the red upholstered box that opened up the world for my brother in his youngest years.  He then pulled out a block plane while looking for the bench plane.

I looked at the block plane and immediately noted that it was nothing like I’d seen before and certainly not the quality of my Veritas or Lie Nielsens.  It doesn’t have a name brand, has a thin sole and the sides appeared to have been almost bent with a brake rather than being a 90 degree angle.  I instantly started to feel guilt as I knew that Grandpa and Grandma didn’t have a great deal of money and my expectations exceeded that.  I took the plane home, took it apart and spent some time cleaning it up, polishing the sole, sides and removing traces of 40 years of garage storage.  I removed the blade and honed the back which took quite awhile as I doubt it had ever been done, but it was great time which I wouldn’t trade a moment of.  Whoever said “You can’t go home again” is wrong because there is something about handling your Grandpas plane that does just that.  After finishing the back, I honed a new 25 degree bevel and put a 30 degree micro bevel on it.  I followed with the ruler trick on the back.  About 45 minutes from the start, it would shave hair on my arm. 

The newly polished blade was returned to its home in the plane and I put a piece of walnut in my vise (wish it was a leg vise).  As I ran Grandpas plane over it, I couldn’t help but to feel like I was eight again playing with something that belonged to the grownups.  I think Grandpa would have been happy with me as it took full width shavings with surprisingly little effort even though the mouth opening is excessive and non-adjustable.  Funny how that became something that didn’t matter as I’m quite sure I was smiling the whole time.  I’ll return it to my brother as promised even though it will most likely return to its home in the garage, but I think I’ll hang on to it a little longer.  I’m not done smiling yet.