Okay, here’s the new deal. Paid subscribers will get weekly stories. Free subscribers will get ONE story per month. Fair is fair.
Let's get the nitty gritty out of the way at the outset. This story is not about waists or knots. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a heathen and a cheat.
If you bought this book under the impression that it would contain pop-diet information, something about how to lose ten pounds in ten days, or help in acquiring the Boy Scout Pioneering Merit Badge, perhaps a diagrammatic exposition of the Bowline or the Trucker's Knot, you are going to be severely disappointed. Though, truth be told, if you haven't mastered the Trucker's Knot by now you are a sad, sad case and have likely lost numerous valuable items from your roof rack or pickup bed.
If you have not yet lost numerous valuable items from your roof rack or pickup bed, trust me, it is only a matter of time.
More than a few of you likely saw the word “waist” in the title and immediately pictured an attractive young woman being sawn in half by a stage magician. We might as well nip that one in bud as well. No magic here.1
On the other hand, if you stumbled in here with an open mind and low expectations you might be pleasantly surprised.
Low expectations are the root of all cheer2, given that those of us who expect the worst are almost always rewarded with the realization that things aren't nearly as bad as they certainly could have been.
Horace Knudsen, the protagonist of this little confabulation (for confabulation it is, or will shortly become)3, was not particularly handy with low expectations. He invariably expected the best. Hence his life was a cupful of disappointments, both short and grande. Oh and venti and trenta. (But being a good apple yourself you eschew Starbucks®, am I right?)
Each day, Mon.-Sat., he would bound to the mailbox seated on the 4x4 post by the curb (the mailbox, not Horace) fully expecting to discover a large check or perhaps tidings of comfort and joy, only to draw out the usual ad circulars, a warm personal postcard from the new dentist in town, the annual warning from the ACLU that this was the “final notice” per a decade long expired membership, or a bill. Thence to shuffle, deflated, back into the house.
That he never did anything which might perchance yield a large check was no impediment to his optimism.
But here's the thing. Our Horace could whittle like nobody's business. Like the dickens. An odd phrase given that there is no extant historical evidence that Charles Dickens whittled a whit.4 Being paid by the word doubtless encouraged Chuck to do rather the opposite: padding versus whittling. A penny extracted is a penny earned5, whether it's the best of times or the worst.
But Dickens is an interesting case in point. No optimist would ever have written Bleak House. This inclines me to think that Chuck's life was immeasurably happy, whittling or no. If one constantly anticipates disaster, simply waking up in the morning is an endless source of jollity.
Horace, known to his friends as Nutter for reasons we don't need to discuss here, embarked on his sadly unremunerative hobby as a lad. A Boy Scout, in fact, which explains things. (i.e.: owning a too-large knife, access to a burly branch, idle time sitting at a picnic table in a quiet campsite, boredom, and nearly cutting off his thumb in the course of the first project6. Stitches, scar, etc.)
I see a hand waving in the back and I know what the question will be. Yes, Nutter had already earned Pioneering Merit Badge. But that isn't what this story is about, as already noted upstream.
The wound wasn't as bad as it looked.
He didn't die.
But he was hooked in addition to being hacked, and later, when he'd recovered more or less full use of his left thumb and acquired a utility knife (a decided improvement over the six-inch hunting knife involved in the contretemps reported above) he completed the project. That first effort, depicting a squirrel holding an acorn, sits on his mantle to this very day.
Hand up again? If you keep interrupting we're never going to get to the end of this parable7. And I know your question.
The answer is “No.” The acorn has nothing to do with his nickname.
Over these many years our Nutter has carved all manner of creatures in ever more intricate detail, having moved on from Bowie knife, to aforesaid utility knife with retractable/replaceable blades, to a fine set of carving tools. He's worked his magic8 on walnut, cherry, redbud, oak, hickory and chestnut.
Birds in flight, porpoises in mid leap, elephants, hippos, wolves and coyotes, horses a-gallop, owls. Oh, the owls! In his most recent effort, a life-sized replica of a screech owl, every feather is precisely in place, the ear-tufts just so, the talons with wrinkled knuckles clutching a branch, and the eyes deep set, carved into the darker heartwood of the butternut grain, so very full of life that you half expect the creature to blink.
Sadly his handiwork was not a profitable enterprise. Each figure took ever so long to complete and the prices they fetched at a local gallery, whacked in half by the commission, worked out to a couple of dollars per hour.9 So checks, yes. Big checks, no.
“Why owls?” you may ask. Well you may.
Think tetradrachm.
Go ahead. Think. I can wait.
Nutter had found one in a shoebox full of oddments he inherited from a great uncle, also named Horace. Why the elder Horace chose to pass along that boxful to the younger when the elder passed along himself is probably beyond the scope of the present tale. One might just as well question the source of the given name. Not so much Horace/Nutter, obviously named for the elder, but of the elder Horace himself.
Knudsen is a Danish surname. Horace dates back to ancient Rome. The disconnect is pretty plain. But, presumably, some stir-crazed Dane in the earlier generation, in the dark of winter, was inclined to Romanesque posturing and couldn't bring him/herself to name the weewad Sven or Martin (see next page).
My guess would be that the elder was suitably impressed, maybe we could say he was “tickled,” that the younger bore his name, and so stipulated in his Last Will & Testament that the blue shoebox on his bedroom closet shelf was bequeathed to our friend, Nutter. Last Wills are often full of surprises10.
Have you thought about it long enough? No? Go ahead. Really, I'm in no hurry.
Horace, the elder, had been a collector of oddments, hence the boxful. I will spare you the list. Use your imagination.
Let's just go with “a number11 of things.”
Amongst the things was a tetradrachm. As in four drachmae. Surely that rings a few bells!
Pallas Athena? Does that help?
Athena was the Greek goddess of wisdom. (But you knew that.) She was the patron and protectress of various Grecian cities, particularly Athens. (The name is a dead giveaway.) Among her sacred symbols was …
Come on now. You know this!
Righteo! The owl! (Also the Gorgoneion, which we'll get to in a minute. Be patient.)
The 5th century tetradrachm was probably the most widely circulated coin in the Greek world prior to the time of Alexander the Great12. The obverse featured the helmeted profile bust of Pallas Athena, and the reverse was stamped with the likeness of an owl. Thusly.
Nutter was deeply affected by that bequest. The Greek coin became something of a talisman for the then-young man. Being ungraced by pessimism, as noted above, he believed the shiny object would bring him good luck. Hope springs eternal.
By the by, Nutter's owls constitute way better representations, but then again, he isn't stamping them on metal—nor are they knocking down six Big Bens a pop.
Speaking of pop, another important symbol of the pop goddess was the Gorgoneion. This gruesome thing features the face of a Gorgon, also referred to as Medusa, which was a more or less ugly head with no body, tongue out and surrounded by snakes. In some versions Medusa has snakes for hair. In other depictions the snakes form a knot around the visage, rather like a Turk's Head13. The symbol was frequently carved on entry doors to guard homes from unwelcome guests. Nutter has incised the same on his own door.
Which brings us to the actual “story” portion of this story.
One Friday the doorbell rang. The Gorgonieon had apparently failed.14
Nutter responded.
The ringer was a youngish, narrow-waisted woman, not at all unattractive.
“Hi.”
Lurlene, for such was her name, quite evidently had no problem with personal space. She stepped in. “Can we talk?”
Nutter, on the other hand, did. And stepped back.
She advanced. He retreated.
Now, well into the foyer, she closed the door behind her.
With a nod of the head, looking left and right, “I like this place.”
Nutter was at quite a loss for words. He looked her up and down. Dark hair, eyes brown, slender nose, thin lips, slender neck sporting a pendant, slender arms and hands, slim ringless fingers, unremarkable bosom, slim waist … okay, okay, we get the picture—a skinny woman … let's move along. Not the Original Barbie®, but close to the 1998 Reimagined Barbie®. Wearing an aqua sweater and darker aqua slacks, and Uggs®.
Back to the pendant.
A tetradrachm! (Or a well-wrought simulacrum.)
“Do I know you?”
“Now you do. I'm Lurlene.”
He extended his hand. “Horace. But my friends call me Nutter.”
“Nutter. How sweet.” She took his hand and held it somewhat longer than seemed exactly right. Then, releasing it, “I think I'll take a look around.”
Nutter followed, mutely, as Lurlene helped herself to a tour of the small house. Living room with fireplace/mantle/and squirrel, dining area adjoined to the kitchen, a short hall, between the two bedrooms, ending in a full bath. She went into the attached garage, long-since converted to a woodworking shop, with its adjacent utility room.
“A Maytag® washer and dryer! Perfect! Just perfect! And such a nice yard. I'll get my things.”
With that Lurlene found her way to the front door and exited, only to return with a pair of suitcases which she dragged down the hall and into the guest bedroom.
When she re-emerged she was naked. Naked? Nutter somehow found his tongue. “I'm a little confused here. What …?” He was cut off.
“This will work perfectly. Just perfectly.”
“What will?”
“This, oh, what would you call it?”
“That's what I'm asking.”
“Living arrangement? Yes. I think that's it. Living arrangement.”
“But ...”
Lurlene pirouetted. “I don't take up much space.”
“I see that, but ...”
“I'm a good cook, though honestly, I don't eat much.”
“I can see that too.”
“I pick up after myself.”
“Well, good, but ...”
“I have my own toothbrush and floss and shampoo and what not.”
“Yes, fine, but ...”
“Then it's settled. I think this is going to be absolutely splendid!”
At this point Nutter's aforementioned optimism kicked in. It probably would be splendid. He had to admit that the years alone, since Marjorie15, had sometimes been lonely. Here was this not unattractive woman, thankfully absent aromas either bottled or biological (perfume, garlic breath, etc.), with a friendly smile and pleasant voice, who had just moved into his spare room. Then there was the possibility that the “living arrangement” might come to include sexual activity, what with them being two apparently single adults co-existing under one roof, and given her evident disregard for clothing. Stranger things have happened. (High hopes involving the libido are often persuasive.) And there was that pendant. Was it a sign? Was this the good luck moment that had been lurking all these years?
“Yes. I guess it's settled. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
“Tea would be great. What happened to your thumb?”
This all happened eighteen months ago. True to her word, Lurlene picks up after herself, cooks, cleans and is inclined to walk from bathroom to bedroom wearing nothing but the owl. A pleasant habit, it must be said, that always contributed to our friend's eager expectation.
As to details of their current, perhaps intimate, relation-ship, I'm surprised you asked, as it's really none of your business. I've certainly never inquired.16
However, he has carved a splendid figurine, his first of a human, a nude in every respect modeled on his roomie, accurate to the last detail, for which purpose he used a slab of rosewood17. Polished to a tee, and accurate right down to the owl dangling on her not unattractive chest. Moreover either his years of experience or his enthusiasm regarding Lurlene's nudism led to completion in record time!
The gallery that handles his work sold the piece for $3,78518, and even minus the 50 percent commission, last Thursday his trip to the curb was … what shall we say?
Splendid?
Yes, splendid!
1But have you ever considered how many assistants those guys go through before they finally “get it right?”
2Some say the square root, and who am I to question that?
3In the psychiatric sense, of course.
4Other than sharpening his quill. Have you sharpened your quill today?
5Unlike, say, a tooth.
6Adversity is the mother of the creative spirit, is it not?
7Or parabola, as the case may be. The author may throw a few curves.
8This isn't the same as the prestidigitation involving bifurcated assistants. This is a metaphor.
9Fortunately he was smart enough to adhere to the age-old artist's adage: “Don't quit your day job.” Optimism has its limits.
10As in the old joke: “To my son Arnold, who wanted to be remembered in my will. Hi Arnold.”
11The Knudsen number is a dimensionless number defined as the ratio of the molecular mean free path length to a representative physical length scale. This length scale could be, for example, the radius of a body in a fluid. The number is named after Danish physicist Martin Knudsen. Now you know! This Knudsen, we note, was no nutter!
12Because they were in such wide use, many have survived. You can pick one up on eBay for about $600.
13Knot not Lily.
14Or maybe not. Time would tell.
15We'll get to Marjorie a little further along.
16Stay tuned.
17Yes, it's been illegal to import rosewood since 2016, but Nutter's stash dates back to 1970, before the Chinese furniture market resulted in the decimation of forests in both Africa and South America, so while he feels some remorse it isn't like he should just use it for firewood. Right?
18(a) In China rosewood is known as “hongmu,” only it's written 紅木, which I don't suppose you can read. Thought you'd want to know.
18And yes, no doubt in part due to the rarity of the substrate.