Building Blocks

How one afternoon—and one straightforward instruction-helped me begin reclaiming my father’s workshop.

Framing the greenhouse with Mr. Pendergrast.

A Workshop Full of Memories—and Wood

After my father died, I inherited not only his woodworking tools, but also the enormous task of cleaning and organizing his shop. At the time, I didn’t fully understand just how overwhelming that responsibility would be.

 Just before his passing, I had reconnected with my high school carpentry teacher, David Pendergrast, after more than twenty years. I had reached out to him for help designing and building a greenhouse using antique windows—a project I was excited to begin. But when my dad died, everything else was put on hold. Before I could build anything new, I had to face what already existed: a crowded, chaotic workshop filled with decades of accumulated tools, lumber, and memories.

The workshop when I first began trying to clear paths through the equipment, lumber, and years of accumulated randomness: an old bank safe, furniture dad made for me when I was a baby, and other “whatnot.”

 In order to install a proper dust collection system and safely use the shop, it first needed to be cleaned and organized. I started by carving out narrow walking paths, just wide enough to move through without tripping over wood and equipment. For weeks, I chipped away at the mess, but progress was painfully slow. The shop remained cluttered, disorganized, and overwhelming. Every piece of wood seemed loaded with potential and memory, making it hard to know what to keep and what to let go.

In the process of cleaning up, I came across a small “stash” my dad had hidden in plain sight between cans of stain and varnish. For several years, I enjoyed a small sip to toast some accomplishment that I knew would make my dad proud.

A Man of Action

 One day, Mr. Pendergrast came over to see the shop. I assumed he’d stay a few minutes, take a look, maybe offer a few suggestions, and head home.

 Instead, true to his nature as a man of action, he rolled up his sleeves and said, simply, that we needed to get the wood up off the floor.

“We need to pick up this wood.”

 That one directive changed everything.

 We spent the entire day lifting, sorting, stacking, and organizing. By the time we stopped, we had made a noticeable dent in the chaos. There was still a mountain of work left, but for the first time, the project felt manageable. Mr. Pendergrast had helped me see the difference between slow, painstaking micro-progress and bold, sweeping action.

 That day became the turning point.

What We Were Really Building

 In total, it took me nearly three years of steady effort on my days off to fully bring the workshop into a usable state. It was exhausting, emotional and, at times, discouraging. But that first big push—getting the wood off the floor and creating order from chaos—set the tone for everything that followed.

My workshop in its current-day state of “controlled chaos.”

 I’m deeply thankful that David Pendergrast showed up that day. Without him, I might still be bent over, picking up small scraps, stuck in endless indecision over what to keep and what to discard. His visit gave me momentum, confidence, and a clear path forward when I needed it most.

 Sometimes, the greatest help isn’t a detailed plan or perfect solution—it’s someone willing to step in, take action, and help you make the first big move.

Turning the Corner

When Mr. Pendergrast said, “We need to pick up this wood off the floor,” neither of us could have known where picking up that first piece would eventually lead. I certainly couldn’t have imagined that the work growing out of that cluttered workshop would one day lead to my acceptance as a member of the Cary Gallery of Artists. But that is the thing about building blocks: one seemingly small action becomes the foundation for the next—and, over time, they build something you never could have envisioned at the beginning.

In the next installment of Growth Rings, we’ll spring forward to the present as I share the winding path to gallery membership and prepare for my work to debut on September 1. A workshop floor I could barely cross and a gallery where my work will soon be displayed may not look like they belong to the same story.

They do.