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.