This burl grew at the base of a large white oak on the top of a hill on a friend’s property in southeast Missouri. The land had passed from grandparents, to parents, and then to the son, my friend. He is a longtime woodworker had admired the burl for twenty years or more but he knew he would probably never know its secrets unless the tree decided to die of old age. The tree was old enough to perhaps have felt sting the grapeshot or musket balls in its bark from the civil war. Over the years the burl had grown to the size of a bushel basket.
A decade or so ago, he and his wife decided to build a house not far from that tree with a commanding view of the valley below. Three years ago a tornado destroyed most of the huge oaks and walnuts on that hillside but luckily it spared their house. During the cleanup that took months and involved scores of broken and twisted trees, he saved and sealed the burl without any clear idea of what he would do with it.
He dropped the burl off at my shop one day late in the summer when he was traveling to the area. He said he wanted me to turn whatever items I could from it. He didn’t care if they were bowls or hollow forms and left it up to my judgment. He asked if I could have one of the pieces done in time for Christmas and I agreed.
A couple of months ago I cut one of the lobes off the burl, turned and hollowed it. I dried it in the microwave over the course of a month. A few times a day or several times a week I would remember that it was setting inside the shop microwave and I would push the button 1,1,1, to set the timer for a minute 11 seconds. That seemed to be the magic amount of time to get it hot but not too hot and speed the drying process.
A few weeks ago I decided that I would begin finishing it the following day, so as I left the shop I punched 1,1,1, and shut the door. The next day when I opened the shop door is smelled like a smoldering campfire. Afraid that I had left something plugged in or had an electrical problem behind a wall, I searched frantically for the source of the smell. I eventually discovered that the smell emanated from the microwave. Evidently, when I left the night before I punched the number 1, four times instead of three. Eleven minutes and eleven seconds! The heat had burned a hole he size of a fifty cent piece thru the lower sidewall and bottom of the hollow form and there was still a glowing red ember on the edge of the hole. I suppose the lack of oxygen in the microwave was the only reason that my shop is not a pile of rubble.
I feared that I had ruined a Christmas gift from a sentimental piece of wood to say nothing of nearly burning my shop down. The turning was fine except for the hole in the bottom and it smelled like burned microwave popcorn. For several days I pondered how I could save the piece and still finish and ship it in time for Christmas.
I cleaned up the charring on the inside of the vessel and ground away the charcoal edges of the hole. I used tinted epoxy to fill the hole and the next day turned the tennon off and finished the bottom. I painted the inside to resemble birch or aspen bark and finished the outside with UV epoxy.
Burls are accidents by nature. Defects that fester and grow into amazing grain patterns. Every one is different, and special and you really don’t know what you have until you cut them open. This one survived a long life and its journey was ended by wind and almost destroyed by fire.
A decade or so ago, he and his wife decided to build a house not far from that tree with a commanding view of the valley below. Three years ago a tornado destroyed most of the huge oaks and walnuts on that hillside but luckily it spared their house. During the cleanup that took months and involved scores of broken and twisted trees, he saved and sealed the burl without any clear idea of what he would do with it.
He dropped the burl off at my shop one day late in the summer when he was traveling to the area. He said he wanted me to turn whatever items I could from it. He didn’t care if they were bowls or hollow forms and left it up to my judgment. He asked if I could have one of the pieces done in time for Christmas and I agreed.
A couple of months ago I cut one of the lobes off the burl, turned and hollowed it. I dried it in the microwave over the course of a month. A few times a day or several times a week I would remember that it was setting inside the shop microwave and I would push the button 1,1,1, to set the timer for a minute 11 seconds. That seemed to be the magic amount of time to get it hot but not too hot and speed the drying process.
A few weeks ago I decided that I would begin finishing it the following day, so as I left the shop I punched 1,1,1, and shut the door. The next day when I opened the shop door is smelled like a smoldering campfire. Afraid that I had left something plugged in or had an electrical problem behind a wall, I searched frantically for the source of the smell. I eventually discovered that the smell emanated from the microwave. Evidently, when I left the night before I punched the number 1, four times instead of three. Eleven minutes and eleven seconds! The heat had burned a hole he size of a fifty cent piece thru the lower sidewall and bottom of the hollow form and there was still a glowing red ember on the edge of the hole. I suppose the lack of oxygen in the microwave was the only reason that my shop is not a pile of rubble.
I feared that I had ruined a Christmas gift from a sentimental piece of wood to say nothing of nearly burning my shop down. The turning was fine except for the hole in the bottom and it smelled like burned microwave popcorn. For several days I pondered how I could save the piece and still finish and ship it in time for Christmas.
I cleaned up the charring on the inside of the vessel and ground away the charcoal edges of the hole. I used tinted epoxy to fill the hole and the next day turned the tennon off and finished the bottom. I painted the inside to resemble birch or aspen bark and finished the outside with UV epoxy.
Burls are accidents by nature. Defects that fester and grow into amazing grain patterns. Every one is different, and special and you really don’t know what you have until you cut them open. This one survived a long life and its journey was ended by wind and almost destroyed by fire.
