Plane Truth: More tool heaven

For the last month or so, once a week, my little workshop has been humming with energy as a small group begins to learn some of the skills of instrument making, by beginning with a tenor ukulele.

It is such a joy to stand in the room and see five vises holding selected pieces of timber, and particularly to hear multiple bench and block planes cutting ribbons -and giving that sweet pleasure that not so many folk are privy to anymore. I had forgotten what a pleasure a busy studio could be.

Now if there is interest, I will blog some of their progress here, but the reason I mention the group is that the presence of a workshop full of enthusiasts has caused me to me weaken (at a local Sunday market at a second hand tool stall) and buy another bench plane, with the excuse that all my stuff is getting used simultaneously...so I need more stuff. Last week I had three block planes, and  #3, # 4, and # 5 all in constant service.  At that stage my # 6 was waiting for a refit and # 7 was needing a sharpen. (They all seem to have favourites, but they are flexible enough to try whatever is offered for a specific task.)

So I bought a (barely) used Australian made Stanley #4 Bailey plane at the market. I thought maybe that the process of making it workable might be of interest to a reader who is reluctant, so far, to tune an old plane...

First, I should say that the Bailey type of plane is not a great type of tool, meaning it is not an exceptional piece of equipment. However, I like the honest, working  nature of them, the humble commercial product that seeks to do a simple job economically and well, especially since they are so easy to transform into really beautiful things to use- without the bells and whistles and snob value of something like a Norris. Tools needn't be glamorous, just serviceable and stout.

In fact the Bailey designs were drawn to make plane manufacture more economical, not to improve performance. This was in Massachusetts and the designer was Leonard Bailey, who was in a position to use recent improvements in steel production to 'power' his ideas. He sold his patent rights to Stanley Rule and Level in the 1870's, and they were made and marketed in several countries since. I have planes made to this pattern from three countries, and all are trustworthy tools.

When finally I had this one on the bench at home it was pretty obvious to me that this was $25 very well spent. It looked quite sad on the market bench, but I knew I could make it look happy because the important bits were in good order. Above, the varnish on the totes was nearly falling off, with shrinkage striations that made them look tired and dry. They are not unpleasant lines though, so I decided to remove only the loose stuff and let the patina shine through some new varnish.

The adjuster mechanism was brilliant, with very little play in it, so adjustment will be easier than it is on most planes.

The base still carries the scars from planing a painted door or some such odd job, attempted without a sharp blade or any respect at all for the tool. This doesn't worry me because all rescued tools seem to need their bottoms flattened. The blade has never been sharpened since purchase- and this is the story for nearly every old plane I've seen at markets and stalls. They have been bought with the best of intentions, but without the knowledge that sharpening is necessary before use, so they wither on a shelf somewhere until they become part of a down-sizing, or a deceased estate. Of the rare ones that have been 'sharpened' most are horribly rounded and uneven; certain to cause anger and frustration. Do one of these a favour. Rescue it and give it a life. They all deserve it!

There is the customary rust on the exposed part of the blade, but the working end has been kept dry by the rest of the detritus on the shelf upon which it hid. This rust is the sort that comes from workshop dust which absorbs atmospheric moisture, and just sits and brews. It isn't deep and the working end is not pitted on it's back, only chipped on the bevel. Pitting on the back of the iron at the sharp end can be serious because it makes a durable sharp edge impossible without grinding the necessary length off the blade. They are only hardened for part of their length. A microscopically smooth back is the first step to real sharpness, never mind the bevel! (to begin with anyway...)

The frog is OK, but needs a small adjustment, and that is easy. The blade needs to be supported as low as possible to prevent 'chatter', so the frog should be positioned flush with the slot (presuming the slot is accurately cast). The two holding screws shown need loosening and then the adjusting screw (which is behind the frog inside the area of the blade adjuster) is turned to bring the   frog forward or backward as necessary.
    
                                                

Devilish hard to hold a straight edge to a plane in front of a light source while photographing, at least without a tripod. But this one shows the lack of flatness on the sole or base of the tool. In fact this is the flattest of all the planes I've tuned over the years and that includes dozens of units from England and USA and Australia. This one is Australian, so it was cheaper than  comparable English or American planes (we have a cultural cringe here, always fearing that we aren't good enough) but the flatness of this was brilliant. Most tools I find are high at the ends, where the casting has shrunk less than the rest, under the thickening at the the totes. This one has a high spot near the middle and a slight rise at the ends, but will be easily sorted.

So the restoration began by removing the handles, sanding them by hand (180) to remove loose varnish, and then giving them three coats of varnish. If it had been necessary to remove all the old varnish I may have been tempted to oil them, but these are working handles, not fashion statements, so I chose to allow the totes to hold some of the patina of age. I used a satin varnish rather than gloss.

Removing any rust is best done after a bit of a scrub with fine (000) steel wool to remove loose stuff, but if you are using a 'rust converter' product like I did on this one, it is best to leave some rust on before coating or the conversion won't work. Badly rusted items can also be treated in a bath of vinegar with amazing results. I like the rust converter on the brass parts too, it cleans them nicely and emphasises the colour of the copper within the brass. I leave them un-polished.

Above, a dip in rust converter for the brass bits. Below, irons coated in the same stuff. Eventually the brown bits go grey and change their chemistry.

Above, my Abbot and Ashby linishing attachment for a grinder. The blade is held by a slide on pivot, so the blade can be offered to the belt from side to side without altering the angle. A small container of water and a brush is essential to stop the tip from overheating, turning blue and ruining your day.

Below, after a short grind, the depth of the damage to the blade edge became apparent. The grind will need to take off everything beyond the deepest chip. Note the concave grind shape from the wheel. It allows a secondary bevel to be added to the tip with a honing guide, and this will be a narrow flat band which is easily re-honed without having to take off a lot of material.

Below, the blade is now hollow ground with a fairly consistent burr all along the edge. That burr (serrated rather than smooth partly because of the machining grooves left on the back from the factory) will be removed on the water stones when the back is honed and the front secondary bevel is formed. The secondary bevel is essential for maintaining the edge without needing to grind every time the blade dulls.

Below, the back of the iron after some initial abrasion with a 300 water stone. Wet and dry paper on glass could also be used. Note the grinding lines up and down the blade- this was the machine finish at the factory. It is best to flatten the working part of the blade, abrading the grooves until about 2mm is groove-less at the tip. Don't be tempted to tilt the blade up to get there sooner, as that will have other consequences, including making it harder to hone the angle you want predictably. After the 300 stone I went up through finer stones to about 4000, and that gives a mirror shine to the surface. I finish the back to the same number grit as I do for the secondary bevel on the front.

Sharpening in general probably needs a separate post, although there are some annotated pics about honing on the Metung Violin Maker's Workshop Facebook page.

Above and below, I discovered some time ago, that the platen on my linisher/sander was actually remarkably flat, and I have been able to use it on plane soles with as much success as I used to have on glass with W&D, but of course much faster. The pic above shows the surface nearly done except for that little area under the rear tote. That would be good enough for most jobs because of the flatness extending to the edge of the rear back, or the surface could be worked for longer to get it just right.

The first ribbon cut with the assembled plane is probably the only good ribbon it has ever cut, and will be the first of many.

Nuts for an Acorn, Heft in my Hands

I had just ridden home from playing down at Gardiner's Creek, and there in the gutter was a bluish-brown crumpled bit of thick paper. It was five quid. A fiver. No-one that I knew ever had a fiver. Except grown-ups, but they didn't count.

When I was nine, five quid (Five Australian Pounds before decimal currency here) was a heck of a lot of money.

Nine year olds back then might be tempted to look at a sum like that in terms of the number of liquorice blocks you could buy (4 a'penny, that's 48 per shilling- that's 360 per Pound. That's 1800 liquorice blocks or 50 chock-wedge ice creams). Unthinkable wealth.

But in those days people had this old-fashioned thing called honesty...it used to be quite normal. So my mother took me to the Police Station and I handed the money into them to be claimed by the poor sod who lost it.

It wasn't altogether easy, but I did it. I had a powerful force for good behind me, so I can't claim much of the credit. My Mum wasn't a saint, but she would have given plenty of them a good run for their money. Even I knew she was more about goodness than grandness.

Ten days later (the legal time period) a nice person at the Police Station called us and said that since the money hadn't been claimed, would we please come down and collect it for ourselves. I can still remember that glorious day, rocking up to the Constabulary in our Austin A60 (licence plate HHS878), Mother at the wheel, me wriggling and fidgeting with anticipation, and the trip home with the prodigal five pound note planted firmly in my pocket.

The thing was, I was overcome by the importance of it and the liquorice block thing had lost it's magic because if you suck and chew long enough they are all gone. I wanted a serious tool for working some wood.

1949-50 McPhersons catalogue

I already had a few good tools (another story), but a plane would make real wood conversion possible, or it would in my young imagination, because a wood plane looks like serious kit. It has cast bits and knobs and is terribly adjustable, so if you set it to cut deep you can take great swathes of wood off and make very thick pieces quite thin. 

It had a blade.

But, (you see) Mr Wenbourne down at the hardware store was hard work. Grey coat and cynical eyes, he was an anal-retentive storeman who would be deliriously happy counting inventory, but absolutely terrifying with young customers, and I was always making something and wanting a dozen of this and a packet of that, and he would tease out the process into details that I had difficulty imagining. A bag of Plaster of Paris. Glue size, Whiting, balsa wood strips for arrows and aeroplanes. I was an endless headache for the man.

Hello Mr Wenbourne may I please have a shilling of nails? Flat or bullet head, he wants to know. Flat. Galvanised or bright he asks tersely. Bright I say. How long? he demands. An inch and a half I offer. What gauge? You would't have a clue...All right he says, shuffling off to the big drum with his galvanised shovel thingy, tipping nails into a brown paper bag until the weight is right. The brown paper bag was the only part of the transaction I ever enjoyed (until I got home) because if you squeezed it you could feel the nails inside, and it made special brown paper bag noises.

desirable things and modern marketing

 I used to buy pine wood one  foot at a time to make skateboards for local friends. They'd supply the old roller-skate wheels and I'd shape the board and fit them, and we'd all fall off together. But  buying the right wood was a bit of a process at our shops and I thought, without having the words for it, that the transformative power of a plane would allow me to make whatever he had into the shape I wanted. But I knew not to ask him for a plane. McPherson's somehow entered my imagination. How it did is one of the few things I have no memory of. The problem was, I understood that McPherson's was in the city and I was only little.

Somehow, I was allowed to go by myself, on the train to the city. While I have no memory of the trip, I do recall quite vividly being at the counter and learning that I could not afford a Stanley Bailey plane, or a Record, but there was a number four made by Stanley and marketed as an 'Acorn' that would fit my budget, and it had the advantage of having red paint on the inside of the castings and a lovely transfer sticker on the top of the rear handle. Golden Beech handles under glossy varnish and a very purposeful brass knob, all packaged in a grey cardboard box with a label at one end. I had my tool. Even Dad didn't have one of these. The box had heft. For the thirty-five minutes on the train this little slip of a boy had heft. I'm still a slip, and I still love a bit of heft.

At some point about 15 years ago I finally threw out the cardboard box- and I have regretted it ever since, but I still have my Acorn Number Four. The first in a life-long love affair with planes, cardboard boxes, brown paper bags and heft.

plane talk about small tools

 Several readers kindly showed interest in reading more about these little tools, so I'll expand a bit here about their development. They are imperfect things made from necessity, so please don't think that I describe them here for any purpose other than a sharing of my limited experience.

 Above and below is where it all started, and these haven't seen the light of day for a long time, and haven't been used since the improved design was produced. My thinking behind these first tries was that the block plane, with its low blade angle, was easy to use on difficult timbers, and I had plenty of that to deal with. They worked well, but weren't any more comfortable than the commercial ones which I could not justify purchasing  at the time due to cost and guilt.

These are one piece of brass for the body, simply folded to become a cradle for the beech wood infill. At the top of the pic above are some bits of blade steel that I have butchered to make blades for these planes.

The point that I missed in these first designs was that a block plane's low angle differentiates itself significantly from a bench plane in having a low centre of gravity, and ease of use with one hand. These are not factors that need consideration in a mini plane. The fact that the bevel is facing upwards in a block plane means that the cutting angle is much higher than would be expected.

So my next design exercise was to take my desired cutting angle (I can't remember exactly the number I settled upon) and design a plane that could :
1. provide some mass to absorb heat.
2. be easily steered with thumb and forefinger and propelled by the second finger from behind.
3. be modifiable for flat or curved bottom shape.
4. be manufacturable by a klutz like me with no real training in these things.

In this shelf unit there are a few ring-ins. Top left and bottom middle are Ibex planes that I bought since doing all this making, just to see if they were any better than mine. They are cheap and very well made- much better made than mine, but they don't work as well, in my hand, anyway. I would recommend them to anyone unable to make their own. I just find them a little bulky and uncomfortable.

 The first of my new design were fabricated from sheet brass again, but without a wooden infill. Jointing was with silver solder. In the photo above the middle two in the top row and the left hand two in the second row are made in this method.

 But then, other people wanted them because they were so handy and portable, but fabrication was way too slow without charging people a fortune, so I wanted to cast some. The pic below if of the most useful of these. This one has a screw for the cap tightening, while some others use a cheese-headed screw. The cheese-head screw might look sexier, but the ordinary one is nice because I can tighten it merely with a twist of the thumb nail.

 The pic above contrasts the same cast plane in two versions- flat and convex bottoms. These ones have rolled tubes as pivot pins for the cap, but early ones had an ordinary nail in there for that job, cut and peened at each end.

The pic below left is of the group that I find most useful, while on the right the underside shot shows the folded and soldered construction of a fabricated one.

Below left is one of the plates of patterns which were placed face down in green sand for casting. The models are made from wood, and the method of manufacture explains why the cast ones have a slightly heftier shape than the fabricated ones. In order to make a successful pattern, the shape has to be tapered away from the plate, or it can't be removed for casting without ruining the impression left in the sand.

Above right, a collection of cast blanks in various stages of finish are waiting for a new life in the wood transformation business. My thinking was that a few spare castings would make it easy for me to continue to develop shapes and ideas, but me being me, as soon as the problems were solved, I lost interest and went off on another spurious adventure, looking for things that I can't do yet.

But I might add (somewhat revealingly) that this behaviour was a direct consequence of a determination to make a more creative life, having nearly lost the one I had. These  were to be the tools of my reconstruction.

When I was at art school at the start of the 1970's, we did life drawing for four hours every week for four years as part of the practical side of the course. The academic side of the course was equally stimulating. In life drawing, the emphasis was on learning to see, but perceive is a more accurate word, and the gestures of the arm and the hand were linked in the brain to the eyes. To describe a form freely we would carve away at the cheap butcher's paper with the charcoal, describing edges with repeated gestures until the shape formed on the page. Hesitant shapes would firm up through repetition and confidence, with the result that an edge would be made from many exploratory lines.

Using these little planes is very much like drawing this way. That is why I find them so satisfying. When you want to reveal a harmonious curve, or a transition (as on the heel of an instrument neck), the plane is the charcoal, linking the brain through the gesture in finding the edge,  volume or  shape. A larger plane removes a flat wide swathe, but these remove long thin ones, so there are lots of arm repetitions and gestures which allow you to feel the shape becoming more refined. The thin line also removes difficult timber with less tear out and resistance.

Did I ever mention that I love nice lines?