Clarence was an old-school carpenter. He had a penchant for hard work and an uncommonly good eye for measurement. His preferred measuring tool was a wooden folding ruler. He taught me to measure quarter-inch and half-inch increments with a carpenter’s pencil. And he taught me three ways to sharpen that pencil. Shave it from the broad side down just to the point where the lead is exposed, and it will draw a line that is ¼ inch wide. Turn it sideways and sharpen it the other way, and it will draw a line that is 1/8 inch wide. Sharpen it until the lead is pointed, and it will draw a fine line that is only about 1/16 inch wide. He carried two pencils behind his ear. One was sharpened on both ends, but differently, and a second one was sharpened only on one end to the finest tip possible. And when he needed an even finer line, he drew his sharpened pocketknife across the wood.

He told me he measured everything to 1/32 inch. I pointed out that his ruler only went to 1/16 inch. He said anyone can eyeball half of a sixteenth! And he did. When he cut a piece of wood, it was the correct size. Clarence did all his trim work with a hand-drawn miter saw and a homemade miter box. He didn’t need power tools to finish the job. His joints were precise.

Clarence never met another friend of mine. Ward was a production carpenter. He had supervised the construction of homes in a factory. He helped our church to build several homes in partnership with Habitat for Humanity. One day, I read my tape measure wrong and cut a piece of trim a quarter of an inch short. Ward laughed, took the piece from me, centered it in the opening, took a power finish nail gun, and put it in its place. I frowned, and he said, “Fill it with caulk. No one will ever know.” “I will,” I responded. “No, you won’t,” he quipped. “You’re not going to live in this house. You won’t even be invited back after it is dedicated.” Then he added. “We’re just building a house. We’re not building jewelry boxes here.” Ward believed in Habitat for Humanity and wouldn’t tolerate wasting any building materials.

I learned about beauty from both men, and I thought about both many years later when I was helping our son make repairs on their 100-year-old farmhouse. Artisans like Clarence built it. The only place we encountered any caulk was in the repairs made by recent owners. The original millwork was perfectly fitted. Our problem is that someone had removed and discarded all the baseboards. We decided to replicate them. No pre-milled boards at the big box store matched the original design, so I set up the router table and milled new pine boards to match the original woodwork. At least I tried to match it. I got within a sixteenth of an inch, but I couldn’t get within a thirty-second of an inch. I don’t have Clarence’s eye. We used a power compound miter saw to cut our angles. In my defense, the walls in that house are no longer square, and I had to do a fair amount of shimming to get the pieces to fit. Guests comment on the original woodwork and how remarkable it was all saved, including the baseboards. Sometimes, vanity takes over, and I tell them I milled the baseboards to match. I often keep quiet, not wanting them to look too closely. There is caulk in some of the corners and along the edges of the baseboards in some places.
I never studied art in school. I don’t consider myself an artist. However, I do have a deep appreciation for art. Some artists can capture and create beauty. Both Clarence and Ward taught me about art appreciation. Clarence’s art was based on attention to detail and careful precision. Ward’s art was based on understanding the function of what he was building. His compassion for the families occupying the homes he built was a different kind of art.

As is true of all kinds of beauty, comparing is not productive. Each of my mentors and teachers had their ways of creating beauty. They were different. The beauty they made was different. But each was a craftsman of beauty.

I now live in a family home in a quickly developed and built subdivision. The houses are very similar. The finished work in our house is what I expect from this style of construction. Joinery is simple, with fewer mitered corners. Cuts were all made with chop saws. Caulk was applied before the paint. When I am in a critical mood, I can see dozens of places where things don’t fit properly. It is functional but would have benefitted from more attention when the finishing touches were done.

In our dining area is a round oak table that came to us from my wife’s parents’ home. We have gathered around that table for family dinners. Our grandchildren have sat at the table working on art projects. Looking at the table brings to memory the smells of cooking, the sound of children’s laughter, and the love of family. Sitting at that table reveals the beauty of having a roof over our heads and a house that is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It recalls memories of countless other family dinners in many different locations.

As with any home, the real beauty is not in the construction details. Beauty cannot be perceived by the eye alone. We experience it with our hearts and minds.

Clarence and Ward are from two different places and periods of my life. They never met, and neither is alive today. Neither knows anything about our son’s farmhouse or the house in which we live. I never met the people who built either of those homes. Yet, in a sense, we are all connected by a shared appreciation for home and the meaning a home can contain.

God willing, these homes will someday be homes to others who will appreciate their beauty and find joy in their shelter.