I'm going to die and I have 27BF of high quality curly maple

Relax, I'm not in poor health and don't plan to shuffle off this mortal coil anytime soon, and no, you can't haz my stuff.  A couple of months ago, my oldest and closest friend passed away and it's gotten me thinking about my own mortality.  Facts are facts.  One day I'm going to die.  I also have 27 board feet (give or take) of high quality 8/4 curly maple.

These two facts are related.  No the maple's not going to kill me.  At least I hope not, and it hasn't made any suspicious moves so far but I am keeping my eye on it.  No, the simple fact is that I've been sitting on that lumber for around five years, and well let's face it, none of us are getting younger.

About five years ago, I found a little wood seller in McKinney, Texas called Curly Woods. You won't find them now, as I quite literally found them the day they were having their going out of business sale.  I was able to get a great deal on a lot of curly maple, a lumber that I knew I wasn't ready to use.  It was too nice for my skillset, heck I was barely making forays into poplar territory at that time.  But the price was great and I dreamed of all the stuff I could make with it.

A small music box from my stash

I've made a couple of small, simple, music boxes with some of it but most of it is sitting in my lumber rack waiting to be used.  A lot of woodworkers hoard lumber, I think it may partially be that when we have a beautiful piece of unspoiled wood we're free to imagine.  What can we build, how will we build it, we're free to dream.  Once we give it form, be it box or chair, table or bed it's fixed.  We can no longer imagine all the things we could build with it.  It's built.  And so, without conscious thought, the wood sits and gathers dust.

Many of us have been fortunate enough to have come into some great lumber because it was sitting in someone's barn, or basement, or garage and when they got too old to work it, or passed, it was given away or sold for a song.  I don't know about you, but I don't want to be that guy.  Beautiful lumber will always be there to free my imagination, but if I have it, it's going to get used.

When they pry that last chisel from my cold, grey hands I want two thoughts to go through their heads.  Where's this guy's woodpile, I don't see it anywhere; and dang that chisel's sharp I'm gonna need a band-aid.