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Prowell's Outdoor Wood Garden Bench #24

>>To Matching Wood Porch Swing PS24>>

Clear, Kiln-Dried, Vertical Grain Western Cedar

Outdoor Wood Garden Bench #24

51" total length

Shown with two coats of the non-toxic WoodRX "Teak" finish.
Ships natural or pre-finished. See Pre-Finish Options

unique outdoor porch bench

The flush-grid signature pattern for Garden Bench #24

Prowell's Outdoor Garden Bench #24 is a testament to the strength and aesthetics of joinery. With the ability to create the proper joint comes the result of endless patterns and designs. It also, we might add, will last till the cows come home.

  joinery for wood benches

Charles developing the backrest pattern for both the Porch Swing #24 and Garden Bench #24

Developing a design for our new Garden Benches is no different than developing a painter's stroke or a dance step. Something unique to the creating eye that over time becomes a signature. First comes the fundamentals, lest your choreography result in a club-footed pirouette.

  woodworking joinery for wood benches

Developing a design for our new Garden Benches is no different than developing a painter's stroke or a dance step. Something unique to the creating eye that over time becomes a signature. First comes the fundamentals, lest your choreography result in a club-footed pirouette.

joinery for wood bench
designing a garden bench

Shown with the Accompanying Foot Stool. GBF

The Foot Stool is designed to create a joint-friendly bend at the knees. It is also designed to avoid the normal gapping between a chair and a stool where the knee joint hangs over an open moat.

  wood custom garden bench


Garden Bench End Tables
Garden Bench Footstool
wood bench outdoor table
outdoor bench footstool


wood benches for the arden

Late in the summer we would sit on the back porch of our sprawling old farmhouse, fanning ourselves, talking. From the barn a hundred yards off the pet Palomino we called simply Horse would make a noise, followed a moment later by an answer from our one milk cow we called simply Cow and that in turn followed the sounds of our two pet sows we called simply Pig One and Pig Two.

Countless evenings passed like this. Mother standing over a chair with bobby pins pursed between her lips setting curlers in my oldest sister's hair and me on the far porch swing with Aunt Dee and my middle sister in the opposite swing with Aunt Bim and if it was Saturday night my great grandmother would be inside at the television, smoking her pipe drawn from an old tin of pipes, yelling at the ref for missing an infraction, an illegal full nelson by a wrestler in a cowboy hat.

At the porch my father standing with his trousers hiked up over his boots, staring into the changing light as the sun dropped down behind Kickapoo Ridge a mile off and every so often flicking the screen to send a fat clinging june bug somersaulting back toward the yard. Back where it belongs with the fireflies and mosquitoes and those black flies big enough to choke on.

Uneventful is what mostly comes to mind. The sound of the chains riding against the swing hooks on the ceiling and Cow and Horse and Pigs talking in the barn and ten thousand crickets in a cricket-symphony along the river punctuated by a holler from the living room and Aunt Dee making funny sounds to mimic a good scalp scrubbing while running her fingers through my hair as I leafed a photo book of Civil War Battles. From the opposite swing Aunt Bim grazing her open palm along my middle sister's arm as she leafed through one of her horse books and when she found something she liked Bim would nod and because she ran the Alterations shop in town, yet another likeness of yet another horse photograph would show up embroidered on yet another one of my middle sister's identical white blouses.

At some point we would be rewarded with a breeze. It would come up slowly once the sky had gone from blue to blood red to a fluctuating purple hanging off the horizon over the ridge like a changing kaleidoscope. Working its way down off the Kickapoo gorge and along the river to carry over the lower dell and up the rise of the lawn and onto the screened-in back porch to graze our cheeks with the relief of a swamp cooler. We would turn collectively toward the canopy of cottonwoods along the river, turn head-on toward the breeze as darkness settled in and as a lone car might approach the bridge from Given's Corner, creeping up onto the elevated bridegboards and then the clap of the loose oak planks before dipping back down onto the roadbed with the headlights bobbing to the sound of shifting gravel and if I remember any one of those hundreds of identical summer evenings it would be when we first heard proof of the albino's voice. Singing up off the river, lifting out from the cover of the thicket and the canopy of cottonwoods and sycamores to wend its way up over the lower pasture like the Messiah. A clear, sustained medley of alternating octaves that silenced the crickets and the bullfrogs and had us all on our feet, pressed to the screen, knowing for the first time how it was more than a mere rumor, more than fanciful exaggerations appearing sporadically over the past 185 years in the hand-written planting logs stashed in the attics of every single one of the forty-seven farms situated along southern Illinois' Salt Fork River.

Although I can't say what the others were thinking, I myself imagined running down to the river, in the dark, barefoot over Slave Hill and through the cool basketgrass below and along a riverbank pocked with snakeholes to rout the legend from the thicket and lock it into a full nelson and drag it up into civilization, into the light of the moon and thereby, at eleven years old, accomplishing something magnificent. Something legendary.


In the the sprawling attic of that farmhouse--this farmhouse now, and then--the original hand-scripted Planting Logs are arranged in nine bound volumes behind the glass of a barrister's bookcase that once belonged to our founding ancestors Wrestling and Chastity Pond. At the head of a giant featherbed wedged among the bearueas and furnishings shoved carelessly into the far corner like the overflow in a museum of semi-collectible art. Amassed with each passing generation of the Pond family since Chastity and Wrestling Pond escaped the Puritan settlement in southern New Hampshire in 1789 to lead a pilgrimage over the White Mountains to cross the Connecticut River and over the Green Mountains to cross the Hudson River and over the Adirondacks to make west across the flat open plane of the Ohio Valley toward the southernmost tip of the newly opened Northwest Territories. On the strength of a rumor. Desperate, apparently, for a less rigid, less Puritanical doctrine ultimately in this rumored valley nestled between the Ohio and the Wabash and the Cumberland and flanked beyond the valley's western perimeter, the girth of the Mississippi. All of it draining collectively into this long meadow, the Salt Fork Valley, with its stands of scattered sycamore and cottonwoods and swaths of spring wildflowers sprouting from a black fertile topsoil that ran ten-foot deep, harbored to the east by the gentle elevations of Big Ridge Rise and to the west by the more dramatic highland peaks of Kickapoo Ridge. They built forty-seven cabins along the Salt Fork River and a proud church utterly free of embellishments or architectural definitions where, as former Puritans and Amish we were redefined as something they called Anabaptists that allowed us to bath naked in the river and sing in the evenings from the flanks of our crude front porches the same gospels we sing today.

Although the planting logs were maintained by everyone and inherited by the succeeding generations of each of our neighboring farms, so many of the others never bothered to summon the patience demanded by scripts that were often awkward and nearly illegible and read with the halting comprehension of those who considered the written word as something akin to Godliness, whereas others, such as the first native-born Pond, True Pond, whose entries for thirty-six years displayed the flourishing fluid swoops of a buoyant personality made more so by his marriage to Acceptance who, given his occasional wandering tangents into the realms of love and, well . . .pornography, clearly influenced his contributions for those logs penned between 1832 and 1868. (It should be noted that while his calligraphic flourish I so admired was replaced abruptly in 1841 by the painfully tight script of his left hand following the loss of his entire right arm in the thresher that survives today beyond the barn lost in a tangle of ancient bracklebush.




Wood Arbors
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