On Tuesday nights, I drive to northwest Philly. I park near the John B. Kelly School. I walk down an alley, code into the Philadelphia Furniture Workshop.
I’m here to build a coffee table, my second project. A year ago, I built a bench.
My classmates are retirees, young people happier at a workbench than at a bar, and a Nigerian immigrant with an encyclopedic knowledge of woodworking tools.
I share a workbench with a recently retired physician. “I had to get out,” he says. He evaluated disability claims for Philly cops and fire fighters. “And now the city is suing me. You know what I told them? Bring it!” He stabs a chisel into the workbench. “You know? Bring it!” I nod.
Woodworking
The Wall Street Journal reports that a hobby can enhance our mental and physical health in retirement.
As I contemplate life after labor, I test woodworking as a hobby. My instructor is a woodworking luminary. He has written books, exhibited work in North America and Japan. He designed and carved the Ohio Supreme Court Judicial Bench. Tonight, he’s teaching us how to cut mortises in coffee table legs.
He’s older. Mid-60s? He has a five-year-old daughter. His wife makes kimchi. He raises a jar, soliciting orders. I wonder about his income.
My five classmates and I pay $900 for an eight-week class. That’s $5,400 minus material costs. He leads other classes. The workshop catalog suggests that he might earn $30,000 to $40,000 per year from instruction.
Maybe he makes more from private commissions. I hope so. Because his skills are extraordinary. When he pencils out the geometry of a mortise-tenon joint or explains wood-grain alignment for table legs, I feel like an engineer trainee on the Apollo Mission.
Our post-labor lives
A few weeks ago, I had lunch with a former colleague, 10-years retired.
“People will tell you ‘Now you can do what you want.’” He flexed his fingers in air quotes. “But I didn’t have an all-consuming interest that I’d kept on the shelf for 30 years.” He speared a grilled shrimp. “I don’t play golf,” he says. “A three-day weekend was more than enough rest for me.”
I relate.
I exercise. I read. I eat and sleep. But I’m not sure how I’ll spend the other 12 hours of each day on Planet Earth in life after labor. My former colleague found his answer with low-paid, but rewarding adjunct-teaching at a local college.
On Tuesday nights, I place safety goggles over my glasses. I slip on ear protection. I walk around the Philadelphia Furniture Workshop. I see projects—benches, side tables, lamps—that I hope to build.
Maybe I’m finding my answer.
–A. Clarke