It begins
with all the trees in the grove and culled down to all the best
trees and narrowed further to only the straightest grade from
the heart of the tree and these, these genetically favored applicants
finding their way to the mill and from this a hand-picked selection
destined for the CPW shops to arrive
as the purest and truest planks waiting expectantly in the wood
bins for those glorious few days of undivided attention.
They become close,
naturally, the expectant planks and the craftsman. Slowly
revealing the eventual form and design of their everlasting appearance
and perhaps, from the Craftsman, a few words regarding the Gate's
new owners and a few words about the Gate's ultimate destination
("In the Nation's capital there will be many passersby
in the latest fashions admiring your beauty and poise. I promise, you
will be the center of everyone's attention").
The Gate
grows conditioned to the sound of the craftsman's voice, the sound
of an Artisan singing his favorite arias or laughing at his own
little jokes as the various parts and extremities to the work are
formed and joined and with each passing hour the developing Gate
can take measure of her looks and general appeal with a growing
pride and at this juncture, nearly always, the blossoming Gate
begins to take a keen interest in her new owners with the endless
questions such as "What color
is the sky and will
there be children and will my new owners appreciate me?" But
of course there arrives the day when our Gate has come of age and
the time in the shop is finished, accompanied by that clinging apprehension
of an awaiting delivery and a long truck ride and into a wide world
far beyond the known world. And, like all sublime beauties, there
are those who need a little reassurance, a little quality time by
the pool out behind the shop where the Artisan might read aloud a
passage from Charlotte's Web, or a limmerick from Ogden Nash.
But of course the
Craftsman's mind is already gravitating to those untouched planks
awaiting their turn in the shop, waiting for their own turn to
the personified promises of a proper home in a proper neighborhood
with the kindest patrons showering their love. But our finished
gate knows nothing of this. She knows, at this juncture, out by
the pool, nothing beyond the tenor of her Craftsman's voice tumbling
over the passages like a reasurring, mellifluous prayer. |
-Garden
Gate #64 was designed for a residence in Washington DC, occupied by a
landscape painter requesting a forum, or showcase,
for seasonal art within their Wooden Gate. 
