It’s not just a chair, it’s a whole forest’s diary. Those old oaks were picked because their grain held tight to the hand‑tool cuts we made, and their heartwood resisted rot without any varnish. The wood was seasoned in the same season it fell, letting the sap dry out slowly so it wouldn’t warp later. Once we laid the joints, we’d apply a thin coat of beeswax—not a shiny lacquer—because it lets the wood breathe and still looks like it has a soul. Over the centuries people kept these pieces alive by re‑waxing, letting the natural oils rise to the surface. The forest, in turn, was the source of the tannins and the very bark that was sometimes turned into a decorative trim. So every chair is a conversation between a forest and a craftsman who insists on listening to the wood’s own story.

Take a look at the forest like you would at a well‑timed dovetail joint. First, buy wood only from suppliers who can prove the trees were grown on land that’s still forested, not a strip‑cut block. Look for those old‑timbers certificates that say the wood came from a legally managed stand. Second, ask your buyer to keep the bark on the timber; it protects the root system when the tree is felled, and it keeps the micro‑habitats that feed insects and fungi intact. Third, put a little seed into the plan: ask the forester if they’re replanting the area with a mix of native species, not a monoculture. Fourth, support local groups that plant and protect “buffer” strips along rivers and roads so the ecosystem stays connected. Finally, think long‑term—if you’re a craftsman, keep a stockpile of reclaimed wood, not fresh cuts. The more we treat the forest as a living book, the more chapters future restorers will be able to read.

That’s the sort of practical, old‑school thinking that keeps the soul of a piece intact. A nursery that mimics the original canopy? Sure, just remember the saplings need their own stories too, not just a copy‑cat version of the forest. Let’s keep the roots grounded and the wood free to whisper its history.