Growing up in my childhood home, I was always confident in the knowledge that if my dad, Hank DiPasquale, went outside to walk the dog, he’d come back with something he found on the ground. If you were lucky, and thankfully, this was more than likely, it was a gnarled piece of wood. This was typically accompanied by hourly declarations of its unique shape, odd texture, intricate grain, and/or its resemblance to a family member’s head. Almost as often, I heard my mother in the next room saying, ‘What the heck is that?’, as she passed its new home on our mantle. My father’s giggling followed.
Many years have gone by and my dad now comes in from his workshop to present us with wood that is sleek, shining, and sculpted. Each piece is different than the last. His caring hands help to shed the rough, weathered exterior and reveal the inner wood. Like all of us, it has a story. Its struggle is shown in each burl and imperfection; its character is displayed by variations in color; and, its triumphs are worn like badges in every line of grain. No two stories can possibly be the same, and something new is appreciated each time we listen to them.
My father first developed the ability to hear these silent stories when he was a teenager. As a pattern maker, he built wooden forms to make metal castings for the Navy. Fascinated by the soul within each piece of wood, he remained a craftsman throughout his life. Today he proudly turns raw wood into collectible works of art whose innate beauty can be found in their remarkable differences.
Nowadays, I am confident in the knowledge that my dad experiences true joy from something he created as well as admiration for the intricacies created by nature. However, odds are that he’ll still bring home something he picked up off the ground and put it on the mantle.
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