On Wood

I have made no secret of my enthusiasm for leather implements. I love the sensuous feel that leather has, even when it's traveling at high speed on impact. And it's also because leather resonates with me.
Now wood is starting to appeal to me too. I'm on very good terms with a maple paddle, and have requested the dogleg brush on a few occasions when leather, however nice, just isn't enough to get me where I want to be.
Thinking about wood brings to mind a pleasant childhood memory.
I must have been about five years old, and my grandfather had just come home from work. My grandmother was standing at the wood stove in the kitchen, trying to get a good fire going so she could cook our supper. I was sitting on the floor beside the stove, watching her feed the flames with piece after piece of smooth, fragrant wood.
The warmth of the kitchen, the dim light of the darkening room, the smell of wood sap, and the shadows the irregular slabs of wood cast on the floor made my imagination spring to life. Those round, rectangular and diamond-shaped blocks of wood seemed the most desirable of playthings. I reached for two, then another and another, and stacked and rearranged them in front of me. They became houses and barns and trees; scraps of shavings and bark became animals. I created a story about them, long-forgotten now, but fascinating then.
There's just something about wood.