‘Find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life.’
– Mark Twain (1835-1910). He was an American writer, humorist, and lecturer best known for his novels ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’ and ‘Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’ which are considered American literary classics.
In the remote rural village of my childhood in the 1960s, there was a man whose real name I never really knew. To me, he was just “Uncle,” a title borne out of respect rather than any blood relation. Around 1964, when I was in Primary 5 and had learned a fair amount of English, I began to call him Uncle Wood because he was always working with timber. Initially indifferent to the moniker, he eventually liked it after I explained the reason for it.
Uncle Wood was a figure of quiet brilliance, a maestro of tools and projects who navigated the world with a skill that left an indelible mark on my young mind.
Despite being much younger than my father, Uncle Wood possessed a level of wisdom that age seemed to have gifted him prematurely. While the other young men in the village pursued fleeting joys, he found solace in the steady rhythm of his work. His contemporaries dismissed him as dull, as they sought merriment in idleness, while he was perpetually engrossed in the art of creation.
With his weathered and calloused hands, he could weave magic out of mere timber using a few tools — a small saw, a long saw, a wood plane, a claw hammer, a wooden mallet, an axe, chisels, carving knives, machetes, a self-made ruler, a plumb bob, and an ink reel for striking straight lines. He was a builder, constructing not just houses but dreams that took tangible form under the dance of his practised fingers.
For two golden years, I became his silent apprentice. Every afternoon, I’d sneak away from the raucous laughter of my friends to join Uncle Wood in his realm of creation. I marvelled at the finesse with which he coaxed life out of inert materials, transforming them into benches, tables, and sometimes even whimsical wooden creatures that seemed to hold the secrets of the forest.
What fascinated me most was his ability to find joy in his solitude. While others sought companionship in giddy conversations, Uncle Wood’s contentment lay in the rhythm of saws and hammers. He stood alone, surrounded by his projects, a symphony of industry in a world that seemed to whirl too fast.
There was a brief interlude in his solitary existence when he acquired a girlfriend. I never quite understood their dynamic, for she craved his attention while he longed for the embrace of his tools. She was a tempest, pulling him away from the tranquillity of his workshop to attend weddings and social gatherings where he felt like an alien among the intoxicated and the boisterous.
I resented her intrusion into our sacred space. I watched Uncle Wood, usually serene, don a mask of misery at social events, surrounded by people whose laughter grated against his sensibilities. The stench of alcohol and unwashed vomit repulsed him, making him yearn for the simplicity of wood and the solitude of his workbench.
Their relationship dwindled in the inevitable ebb and flow of life, leaving Uncle Wood to return to his tools and projects.
I continued to observe him with a sense of awe, a wide-eyed witness to the quiet symphony of his craftsmanship.
In 1965, at the age of twelve and in Primary 6, I began to grasp the essence of Uncle Wood. One day, as he carved a whimsical door handle resembling a human arm, I questioned the necessity of such intricate details.
“You could just nail a piece of wood onto the door and be done with it,” I suggested, expecting dismissal.
“I can’t do that,” he responded.
“Why? As long as you can open and close the door with it ….”
“No! My door handle must be the best-looking one in the whole village.”
“Why?”
“If it’s not done to my satisfaction, it will annoy me to no end. And I will have to look at it every time I open and close the door.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see. I do what I do because it’s fun. It makes me satisfied and happy. You like reading, right?”
“Yes!”
“Is it fun? Does it make you happy?”
“Yes!”
“Well, now you see! You love reading, I love doing woodworking and building things.”
Uncle Wood’s passion for woodworking transcended mere enjoyment. He was enthralled, obsessed in the most beautiful sense. Even the scent of wood excited him; before every project, he would savour its aroma. He became the living encyclopedia of wood, cherishing samples from every species he encountered in the jungle.
Armed with an array of knives, his favourite a versatile companion for cutting and carving, Uncle Wood found solace not in idleness but in the act of creation. While others sought rest, he relaxed by carving miniature figurines, including practical things such as walking sticks. However, many of his creations ended up as firewood because they did not have the elusive quality and artistic beauty he fervently aspired to capture.
He had no desire for wealth or fame; his satisfaction derived solely from the act of creation. To him, the joy of building something beautiful and enduring was reward enough.
For him, his workshops became sanctuaries for seeking respite from the cacophony and monotony of what was normal life for others.
There were two workshops, one behind his house and the other in a food forest in the middle of his rubber garden a mile or so beyond the village. They were not workshops in the modern sense; they were just roofed workspaces where he could make wood shavings and dust without annoying any neighbours.
For a fee or just to help those who needed his help, he was always happy to produce simple and functional items such as knife handles, chairs, and benches, but he was happiest when he worked on intricate carvings which he seldom sold.
In 1968, when I was 15 years old and in Form 3, I returned one Saturday from my boarding school to the village. Disappointingly, Uncle Wood was not there anymore. I felt quite sad because I had planned to show him what I had learned from my woodworking teacher in school. My mother said he suddenly left with a friend who had been working in town. Which town, she did not know. All I could do was hope that he had found a job where he could use his self-taught skills or he would become miserable.
The next day, because I missed him so much, I took my little brother, Little B, to visit whatever was left of the workshop in the food forest. As we expected, the place was already overgrown with tall grass and creeping plants. Bits of unused and discarded timber as well as unfinished work pieces were scattered all over the ground, reminders of the transformative power of his passion and dedication. In my mind’s eye, as I walked among the remnants of his creations, I saw the man who found more joy in work than in leisure.
Life, as usual, has its rhythms and twists and turns, over which we have no control. In 1998 I was working in Kuching for the now-defunct tabloid, The People’s Mirror. Sometime that year, I went on a working tour together with a few fellow journalists at the invitation of the Sarawak Timber Industry Development Corporation (STIDC). That was when I bumped into him at, of all places, a factory producing for-export furniture in the vicinity of Selangau town.
Both of us were so surprised that we just stared at each other for several moments before letting out loud exclamations that were laced with some choice expletives of gladness.
Unfortunately, we had less than 15 minutes to catch up on old news because our tour entourage had a very tight schedule. We had another place to visit before calling it a day, and it was already in mid-afternoon.
Because I was concerned about his welfare, my first questions were about his well-being and whether he liked his job. He assured me that he couldn’t be happier. He apologised for not contacting me all those past years because he did not know where I was. I told him not to fret about it because all I cared about was whether he had a job that he loved. He assured me that he had done well because his ‘towkay’ highly valued him for his extraordinary skills. He was supposed to have been retired but his employer loved to have him around as he was irreplaceable.
Before we said goodbye, he held me by the shoulders for a second, ran a hand over my shirt sleeves, touched my camera, marvelled at my cell phone, and murmured assumptions that I had done well for myself.
“I can’t believe that the little boy I used to know is now a middle-aged man,” he laughed. “God must be having fun with me, or with both of us. But I’m glad.”
I kept thinking about him for the rest of the day. When I retired for the night in a hotel in Sibu, it felt like a long unresolved chapter in my life finally came to a close with a satisfying and heartwarming conclusion.
It has been 25 years since that meeting during which we never met again. Assuming that he has a long life, he would be more than 90 years old as of the writing of this article. If he’s still alive, I wonder whether he still does his wood carvings. In my free time, I build things to please myself, but I am not his equal and never will be. He was a master of his trade while I have always been more of a tinkerer.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
