How can we give our work that quality—to the homes we build, to their interior and exterior woodwork; a beauty that will live through the ages and not look clumsy, pretentious, or just plain ignorant?

This is important! As carpenters and woodworkers, our work is our life. It will be here long after we’re gone. And I, for one, desperately don’t want my legacy to be a big pile of trees wasted in bad and ugly work.

Here in New England, I can look at classic architecture: Colonial, Federal, all types of Victorian homes, and try to puzzle it out—learn how to replicate the look of a well-designed home or detail. But it’s still hard for me to tease out everything—the proper proportions, the symmetry—all on my own, and I’ve worked in these old houses for years. And what about my friend Gary Katz? He lives in California. He thinks a craftsman house built in 1920 is as old as the Parthenon. How is he ever going to learn to design a graceful Georgian-style mantle?

Amazingly, I discovered a book that makes it all much simpler. It turns out that there are rules of thumb and basic concepts we can use to design architectural woodwork that looks right. Not only that, but these rules were well known by the builders of the 19th and 18th century in this country, and even by builders going back to the old world in Europe and ancient Greece. Lucky for us, a group of authors and illustrators have put these rules and suggestions into a form that even us carpenters can understand. This awesome book is Get Your House Right (GYHR).

Everyone who has anything to do with building homes should own this book. And they should read it, too. In fact, we should do more than read this book—we should study it.

I first recommended this book to Gary Katz almost three years go (where would he be without me? Sometimes I think I’m the wizard pulling his strings—oh, that’s a mixed metaphor, isn’t it?). Now I notice that other carpenters are reading this book, too. That’s encouraging. We should take our craft seriously; we should try to do good work, work that is not only built to last, but work that is beautiful so that it should last. Get Your House Right is a good first step toward designing beautiful work.

The book begins with a great introduction, titled: “Why You Need This Book.” Don’t skip that introduction. It should be required reading by anyone who picks up a hammer and calls him/herself a carpenter; or by anyone who picks up a pencil (or a CAD program) and calls him/herself an architect!

And the book ends with a delightful explanation of rules and how they apply to architecture. Obviously, if Frank Lloyd Wright had followed all the rules in GYHR, we would never have enjoyed Falling Water or the Prairie Style; and I sure wish this book had included rules about Gothic architecture, too. But even the authors admit that GYHR is about classical rules, what they refer to as “The Great Game”. They write: “To know how to play any game, you need to understand the rules. But to play it well, you need to learn to break the rules, too.” But you can’t break the rules unless you know the rules.

Like a good 18th century pattern book, GYHR begins with a discussion of unity and a review of the Classic Orders, and soon delves down into the specifics, with easy-to-follow examples of proper molding design and placement, from base to cornice.

The authors cover every aspect of a home, from arches to windows to doors, and in exciting detail. Don’t miss the mullion and muttin layouts, the sill details, or the right and wrong brick designs.

In our age of zero lot line McMansions (the recession hasn’t been all bad!), we’ve seen enough architectural sins to last several lifetimes. If you aren’t familiar with some of them, but still get a queasy feeling when you look at many contemporary homes, you’ll learn a lot from the first chapter of this book: “Nine Things You Need to Know”: a concise and focused essay on how to design buildings with grace and simplicity; how to design homes with sustainable materials and sustainable features!

I’ve always felt that one of the best ways to teach someone how to do something is to show them the wrong way, then show them the right way. The authors of Get Your House Right must have felt the same way. They frequently compare examples of what to AVOID with examples of what you should USE.

If you’ve ever wondered about proportions—how wide or how tall something should be—you’ll find the answer in this book.

Here at TiC, we’ve already taken subjects from GYHR and turned them into comprehensive and easy-to-follow articles (like The Misused & Confused Chair Rail, and Terminating Versus Supporting Moldings), and I’m sure there will be more in the future. This is one useful book.

I love making things out of wood. That’s why I’m a carpenter; that’s probably why you’re a carpenter, too. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that, with a little spare time on my hands, I went looking for a woodworking project.

I’ve specialized in stair building for most of my career, and for more than ten years, I’ve been writing about and teaching carpentry, too. Last fall, just as I finished setting up my clinic at the JLC LIVE! show in Seattle, a stack of boards a few booths away caught my eye. The Western Red Cedar Lumber Association was setting up a demonstration, and they had some beautiful old-growth redwood. I asked nicely, and they let me take 5 ft. off the end of a 2×8. The piece was almost perfectly quarter-sawn, with extraordinarily close grain, and just about totally clear. I counted 30 rings to the inch—that 2×8 took 240 years to grow! What could I make out of it? I had a nice set of tools, mostly donated to the clinic by my sponsor Festool. And I had my trusty spokeshave, which I use to fair the joints between handrail fittings.

Most carpentry consists of cutting up boards and moldings, and rejoining them into bigger things like doors, windows, bookcases, and floors. Carpenters rarely get a chance to get under the surface of wood: The sawmill finds a board inside a tree; the mill-shop finds a molding inside a board; but most carpenters only rip boards to width and cut moldings to length. Most carpenters don’t even know that the real glory of wood happens when we cut curves, when we make wood bend, when we carve into the heart of a tree and find the magic inside.

A few weeks before that show, I spent a Saturday afternoon canoeing and picnicking with my wife, Helen, and some old friends. We had a lot of fun. It was a sunny, colorful fall day. Not many motor boats. Calm enough so we could talk as we paddled around the lake. I have an old yard-sale wood-and-canvas canoe, a little leaky, but eye-catching, like a classic motorcycle. I love that canoe, but I’ve never liked the paddles. One is plastic and aluminum; the other is a glue-up from mismatched strips of wood, machine-carved to a graceless hunk. To my eye, those paddles never shared the same design or spirit as the canoe—strong only where it had to be and light where it could be.

I’ll never forget the paddles my Dad had when I was a kid. Maybe he had them since he was a Boy Scout in the late thirties. I think my brother has them now (he doesn’t get all the good stuff: I got Dad’s Ford tractor). Those paddles were carved from basswood, or Doug Fir, light colored, and lightweight. The blades were thin and rounded, the handles cut to fit the shape of a hand. Even then, my small hands could hold one of those paddles for hours. And the throat, where the shaft flairs out into the blade, was gracefully strong, and comfortable, too.

Somehow, I just knew there was a perfect canoe paddle inside that piece of old-growth 2×8 redwood.

A canoe paddle is supposed to be as high as your armpit, or maybe it’s your nose—I can’t remember. Anyway, I cut the board off at 58 in., (I’m no giant). Next, I held my tape measure as if I were paddling (see photo, above, right), and figured the shaft should be about 44 in. long.

First I traced the inside of my fist to get a good idea of how thick the handle or shaft should be.

Then I set my combination square at 3 in. and drew lines down both sides of the board for a 1 1/2 in. wide shaft.
Next, holding the pencil in my hand with about 4 in. sticking out, I let my wrist be a compass and drew the curves of the blade—out to the full width of the board and back again at the end.
Tightening up my wrist and the pencil, I drew the smaller radius of the handgrip.

My drawing wasn’t as symmetrical as I wanted, so I picked the best side and, using my saber saw, cut one side of the paddle to the line.

I picked up the piece that fell off and used it to improve the line on the other side. There is no better way to guarantee symmetry.

What was left of that 2×8 looked pretty funky when I held it up, but there was definitely a paddle in that piece of redwood.

I wanted to put a little bend in the design, so the blade would be vertical in the water right at the middle of the power stroke. I also wanted to make the paddle slightly hollow on the back side—like your hand when you’re swimming the crawl. I figured that hollow would give it a better grip on the water. I’d seen racing paddles with similar designs. With 1 3/4 in. of wood, I had some extra material to work with. The thickest part of the paddle, the handle, needed to be 1 1/4 in., so I could work almost 3/4 in. of bend (and a lot of hollow) into the blade!

The quickest way to remove wood is with a power plane. Both the Festool HL 850 and the EHL 65E work great for the job. The smaller plane can be held easily in one hand. Even with these planes set to cut the maximum depth (about 1/8 in.), the dust collector sucks up almost all the chips. First, I planed the ends of the paddle on one side, and the middle on the other side to put in the bend.

Next, I cut a hollow on the concave side of the blade, and tapered the other side as much as I dared.

The whole planing process took only about 5 minutes, and the paddle was quite a bit lighter when I finished. The final shape had to be cut with a spokeshave, then cleaned up with sandpaper.

The spokeshave is one of my favorite tools. We use them in my shop a lot, to make curved handrail parts. A spokeshave is really just a very short hand plane with handles on the side. The one I used here is a Stanley or Record Model 51, available from almost any good hardware store. Often these tools need some work before they can be used. I always grind the chip breaker back at about a 45-degree angle, which provides a bigger opening for the chips to pass through. A belt sander will do that job in less than a minute (see photo, above). I also sharpen the blade so that it will shave hair off my arm.

Like any tool, the spokeshave won’t do the job by itself. I’ve been handling these small planes for years; they’re as natural as riding a bicycle. But when I watched my friend Gary Katz try it for the first time—and he stubbed the plane repeatedly into the grain—I remembered that its not as easy as it looks. Here are a few tips:

Adjust the tool carefully. Set the blade adjustment screws so the shaving is paper-thin and perfectly even. Because the sole is so short, spokeshaves can be used to make surfaces flat or curved.

Keep the sole flat on the work. Hold the tool down hard, and don’t rock it while cutting.
Cut out of the grain or diagonally across it, otherwise you’ll stub the plane in the grain or jam the throat with shavings.

Plan ahead. Take off just the wood that has to be removed. Imagine the shape within the board. The tool is amazingly fast—even if each stroke removes only a 1/64 in., 16 quick strokes will remove a 1/4 in. in about 16 seconds!

First, I shaved the corners off the shaft to make it octagonal, then took those corners off to make it almost round. Then I shaved the blade on the concave side to get the shape I wanted; then on the other side to get the right thickness. The blade is only about 1/4 in. thick on the edges for lightness, and about 3/4 in. thick in the center for strength. I kept putting my eyeball on it to check for straightness. I also held the paddle an arms-length away, to check for symmetry. I paid special attention to the throat, where the blade meets the shaft: that transition must look right, and it must feel right, too—that’s the spot I’ll always be holding while paddling.

To work the handle, I clamped the blade end down and supported the handle against my leg. I checked the shape of the handle with my eyes closed—trusting that my hand would know the right shape better than my eyes. The faces of the handle are deeply concave, so I extended the blade of the spokeshave out more in order to reach the bottom of the hollow cuts.

The spokeshave took the paddle down to its final weight and shape. And it left a pile of shavings on the floor—the only real mess I made! Everything else was in the vacuum.

Sanding was the last step, and the Festool sander picked up that dust, too. I used the sander to take down the ridges left by the spokeshave, and to smooth out the pick-outs where Gary shaved the grain in the wrong direction. The Rotex cuts pretty fast. I probably could have started with a coarse grain paper, like 50-grit Crystal, and done a lot of the carving with the sander, too. Festool’s Crystal paper is an open grit that won’t clog while sanding paint or softwoods. I was able to smooth out the paddle pretty well with 80-grit Rubin, Festool’s normal sandpaper for wood. I took out the fine scratches with 120-grit.

For hand sanding I went back to #80, using a full sheet folded into thirds the long way to make it stiff enough for fairing. I sanded long strokes with the grain, to take out some flurbles that were easy to feel with the sandpaper, but were hard to see while machine-sanding. I used the #80 to break the sharp edges of the blade, too, and rolled it into a hollow curve to even up the rounded-over shape of the top of the handle. Then I went over it again with 120-grit paper, and then 180. The 180-grit polished the wood ’til it was almost shiny, but it also showed up some scratches and low spots that I hadn’t seen with the coarser grits. I went back to 80 to fix a few spots, then 120, then 180 again. With the sanding complete, the paddle was ready for finishing.

Spar varnish has to be the best finish for a paddle: after all, spars are wooden sailing ship masts, booms, and yardarms. I bought a pint at a nearby paint store along with a couple of foam throw-away brushes, a sheet of 400-grit waterproof paper, and a tack cloth. I blew the dust off the paddle, and laid the varnish on with the grain, everywhere except the handle. The handles are always left raw on old paddles, probably to improve the grip, but also because the finish would wear off anyway.

I hung the paddle up to dry with a spring clamp gripped on the handle. In all, I put on three coats of finish, sanding between each with the 400-grit, which I crumpled up under a running faucet, to keep it from clogging up with varnish. Between each coat, I wiped off the paddle with a rag and took the dust off with the tack cloth. I put the last coat on and let it dry in the least dusty place I could find.

Those of you who have attended my seminars and clinics might have noticed that I broke my Number One rule while making this paddle: Always design your work before you build it! But it still looks pretty cool. I’ll give it the real test this summer.

Most of my work is at the high-end of the New England custom home market. For the jobs I do, in Boston brownstones that even today sell for several million dollars, there are no off-the-shelf parts—everything is completely custom, or an exact reproduction of work done in the 18th or 19th centuries.

I’m often called in to replace or repair an existing stair; to create a fanciful one-of-a-kind design; or to satisfy a client and architect who know exactly what they want, even though they often don’t know what that is until I draw it, and turn or carve samples (in some cases repeatedly).

Early in my career, I learned how to grind the shaper knives for my big old Yates-American cast iron shaper, and I’m glad I did. That skill has saved me from having to order custom knives for almost every job I do. There are many good companies that will supply custom cutters from a sample or a CAD drawing, but by grinding my own I can save a little money, and make the moldings the day I decide I need them. I can also modify the cutters if the molding doesn’t look quite the way I want. Not only that, but in our shop we take great pleasure and pride in being able to build architectural millwork and furniture from scratch. Sometimes we have to, or want to, use 19th-century techniques to get results that are as good as the old carpenters’ we learned from—they’ve been dead for 100 years, but we get to look at their work every week.

Mike milling 12/4 mahogany rail stock

We are all carpenters because making things is in our hearts more than making money, and I’m not going to buy something if I can make it as well, or better, myself. Learning to make your own tools is a step up for the serious woodworking carpenter.

In the time it takes Mike Kennedy, who works with me in my shop, to rip, join, and plane the railing stock (see photo, left), I can cut and grind the shaper knives. I think we’ve made over 40 different handrails over the years. And I’ve got a couple of sets to make next week.

Before I get into the actual process of knife cutter grinding, I want to say a few words about design.

Moldings aren’t just random squiggly lines cut into wood. Both the shapes and proportions of moldings have a long history. Moldings are meant not just to connect different levels with graceful curves, but also to create interesting lines of light and shadow. We don’t have to reinvent the wheel every time we design a molding or handrail. Almost every traditional and modern molding has its origin in the Classical Architecture of the ancient Greeks and Romans more than 2000 years ago, or in the Cathedrals, castles and manor houses of the Middle Ages—the Gothic period. 18th and 19th century builders studied this stuff, and you can, too. There are many inexpensive reprints of books about classical architecture with actual molding patterns in them, as well as reproductions of old millwork catalogues. (* See end of article for a selection of book recommendations.)

Of course, looking at the exteriors of traditional buildings is free, and the details can be scaled down for residential interiors. Churches and temples often have beautiful woodwork. Helen, my wife, and I are at that age when a lot of our friends’ kids are getting married; we went to three weddings this fall. I wonder if she’d notice if I brought my sketchbook to the next one.

Handrail also has to meet strict requirements of building codes. To see a good explanation of the required profiles, download this great IRC Stair Code Visual Interpretation from the Stairway Manufacturers Association.

Getting Started

Cutting knife stock on my retired Makita chopsaw

I cut the steel stock for the knives from a bar of shaper steel with a 10-in. x 1/8-in. fiber-reinforced cut-off wheel mounted in an antique no-tilt no-slide Makita chopsaw.

Shaper steel is available in many sizes and types. I have both lock-edge and corrugated-back heads for my shaper. I also grind knives for my Williams and Hussey machine, which uses special bar with bolt hoses drilled on 1-in. centers.

I buy my shaper steel over the phone from Charles Schmidt Co. in Montvale NJ. I almost always use 1/4”-in. thick XLW-type steel in 25-in. bars of various widths. I always make two identical knives for each molding—they go together in the shaper head, and balance each other. I try to make them as close to identical as possible, so that they each cut the same amount.

I start with a full-size paper printout from a CAD or freehand drawing of the railing or molding profile.

I glue the paper drawing to a piece of 1/8-in. acrylic or plastic laminate, like Plexiglas or Formica,
then cut out the shape of the railing profile using a scroll saw with a fine blade.

If I am copying an original molding, I cut the sample off at a 15-degree angle (about the angle that the cutter will hit the wood) and trace that section onto the plastic. I spray the knife blanks with black stove paint, and, using the plastic template and a needle-sharp awl, I score the profile on the face of each knife.

Scribing the pattern on the knife blank

Remember that the shape of the knife is the negative of the shape of the finished railing. It’s a good idea to mark the knife on the side that will do the cutting, and to mark the side that you want up when the knife is in the machine. Don’t ask me how I learned these last few tips.

Now comes the dirty part.

Grinding knives by hand is dangerous business

This technique isn’t for everyone. It’s dangerous—like a lot of the things a carpenter or woodworker does. If my hand slips while I’m grinding, I can get a nasty abrasion from the wheel, and the knives are very sharp—they can cut you even without being in the shaper and running. Grinding wheels can shatter, and the pieces can cause serious injury. The dust from grinding is dangerous to breathe, and steel filings, sparks and silica from the wheel are eye hazards. It can be a fire hazard, too: the steel can become hot enough to burn.

I use a dust mask and eye protection. I also work looking through an illuminated magnifier with a plastic lens, which gives an additional layer of eye protection, as well as improving my accuracy. I use a spray mister which cools the work, keeps the grinding wheel sharp longer, and helps to control dust. I set the tool rest very close to the wheel so the work or my finger can’t slip between.

I hold the steel with a very firm grip. I mount and check the grinding wheel according to the manufacturers instructions. Before I put the wheels on the machine, I hold them with my finger through the center hole and tap them with the plastic end of a screw driver—they should ring like a bell, not make a dull thud, which indicates cracks. Good lighting is very important, as well as a comfortable posture—I usually grind sitting on a stool with both feet on the floor.

Most important, I always pay very close attention to what I’m doing. I don’t recommend this technique for everyone. But I’ve never had an accident at the grinder, except for an occasional scraped knuckle, and I’ve ground hundreds of shaper knives. Whenever I’m working with power tools or hand tools, whether I’m sharpening, sawing, turning, carving, or cutting miters on the chopsaw, I try to stay focused on the task. I know that any machine that will cut wood or steel can also cut me. There is no smart way to hurt yourself woodworking, but there are a million stupid ways. (THISisSafety)

A note on my equipment:

I use a 10-in. diameter pedestal-mounted grinder that is bolted to the floor. Mine is Dayton Brand, which I bought new from Grainger’s 20+ years ago. I believe they still carry it.

Attached to the grinder is a mister/cooler, from MSC, powered by my compressor. You can get one for about $140.

Both of these companies also carry illuminated magnifiers.

Rough out

Blocking out the knife with a fiber-reinforced cut-off wheel; notice the coolant spray

I start grinding with a 1/8-in. fiber-reinforced 10-in. cut-off wheel to rough out the knives. I set the tool rest level at the height of the center of the wheel so it makes a square cut. I turn the grinder on, start the mister, and dress the edge of the wheel with my diamond dresser to clean and center the wheel. Then, with a series of cuts from different angles, I remove as much of the excess steel as possible.

[Note: For a look at Jed's grinding technique, see the video at the end of this article.]

Curved profiles

Next, I use a 1/4-in. x 10-in. 36-grit aluminum oxide wheel to rough out the molding profiles. The wheels I use are Norton brand and come from Charles Schmidt Company, the same place I usually buy shaper steel. They are very friable, that is: crumbly, which is a good thing, because it makes them fast-cutting, and they don’t clog up with metal from the knives.

First, I reset the tool rest to 45 degrees. The angle doesn’t have to be as acute as a plane blade (30 degrees); it just has to be steep enough so the heel of the bevel doesn’t hit the wood when it’s in the shaper.

The first pass I make is to bevel the knife; I’m just removing stock from the underside of the knife blank. Then I start grinding away at the profile.

Roughing out with a 1/4-in. aluminum oxide 36-grit wheel; you gotta lean into the knife, but carefully!

I start by dressing the wheel with my diamond dresser to a half-round shape. (See photo, left) Then I work from right to left, taking the material off in repeated passes. The closer I get to the scratched line, the slower and more carefully I go. I re-dress the wheel whenever it starts to cut slower and hotter from being clogged with steel, or whenever it begins to lose the shape I want. I finish this step by carefully cutting up to the lines on all the concave shapes. (Concave on the knife, I mean. On the molding, these shapes will be convex.)Then I dress the wheel square. (Or better yet, I use a similar size—but harder and finer grit—wheel mounted on the other end of the grinder. Then I can go back to the half-round wheel and touch up the concaves, if needed, without re-dressing.)

Dressing a harder wheel square to cut inside corners. A diamond dresser can last for years, but eventually the steel around the diamond gets worn away - then the diamond is gone.

Cutting inside corners

With the square wheel, I cut up to the line on the straight parts of the knife, and on any convex shapes.

Finally, I put a very slight bevel on the square wheel, making sure that the corner is sharp—not rounded—and dress the inside corners of the knife (which will be the outside corners of the molding) nice and sharp.

Often, I’ll clean up the knife, turn off the spray for better visibility, and make one last, very light pass with both wheels for accuracy. This is sparking-off—a cut so fine that it just barely makes a spark.

Before leaving the grinder, I weigh the knives. They must be balanced, or the cutter head will vibrate. They should be within 1/10 of gram. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out where to remove the stock from the heavier knife.

Finally, I hone the knives razor-sharp with a hand-held stone. Gesswein is a good company for stones and stone oil.

I make a test cut,
then check the profile against the drawing.

Sometimes the fit is perfect, but if I need to make adjustments, it’s easy—just remember that the more you grind off the steel, the more wood remains on the molding. It’s just a matter of grinding a little more here and there until the molding fits the drawing perfectly. (Don’t forget to check the knives for balance.)

We make both straight, large, and tight radius level-turn rails with these knives—completely custom. A shaper is one of the most versatile tools in a woodworking shop, and also one of the most dangerous. So, know what you’re doing, and pay attention.

•••

. . .

. . .

Selected resources:

Asher Benjamin, The American Builders Companion — an influential book written for Federal era  (c. 1810) builders

Edward Whitehead and Frank Chouteau Brown, Early Homes of Massachusetts and other reprinted titles of the White Pine Series — contains beautiful detail drawings of Colonial-era millwork, exterior and interior

William Ware, The American Vignola — a good collection of classical revival designs

Tunstall Small and Christopher Woodbridge, Mouldings and Turned Woodwork of the 16^th 17^th and 18^th Centuries

C. Howard Walker, Theory of Mouldings — just what it says, originally published 1926

Roberts’ Illustrated Millwork Catalogue — and several other reprinted millwork catalogues from the late 1800s…Victorian!

I worked in finish carpentry and millwork for quite a while before I learned that you have to design things before you can build them: the less confidence I had about each step of a job, the more important it was to plan right to the end, before cutting one piece of wood.

(Note: Click any image to see a larger version. Hit "back" button to return to article.)

Some time later, I figured out that I didn’t have to design everything from scratch — lots of smarter carpenters had built most of the same stuff before. What I really had to do was look at their work! From that experience, I’ve learned that the correct way to build a house is to design the handrail first, then design the stair, and the rest of the house will follow.

I’m not at all self-taught. I went to school for woodworking, and I was lucky to have a superb teacher. And I was lucky to work for and with some really good, experienced, and generous carpenters on job sites, and woodworkers in mill shops.  In fact, A 75-year-old master named John Mesiti taught me woodturning, which got me into stair building.

But I couldn’t find a living stairbuilder to teach me everything I needed to know about the trade, so I had to learn from dead ones: craftsman who left their techniques behind in books; carpenters who left their work behind in old homes.

While learning to build stairs, one of the biggest problems I encountered was how to make a volute. What is a volute?

Pronounced Vol-ute, depending on where you hail from, the word originates from natural forms, like unfurling leaves, the shells of mollusks, or gastropods and ram's horns.

Come on! A volute is one of the most beautiful pieces of wood in a home. It’s the curved piece on the bottom of the stair; it’s the spiral, the beginning on the way up and end on the way down of every proper stair; a volute is the piece that supports the birdcage of balusters at the starter step.

The spiral volute design appears on fiddleheads both of the fern and the violin, and pairs of volutes decorate the capitals of the Ionic order. Volutes play a role in the old mystic golden number — the Fibonacci series, they have a kind of magic.

In fact, if the house is a body, and the handrail is the main artery, then the volute is the heart of a home.

And for carpenters, volutes provide a natural termination for linear molding and handrails.

For hundreds of years volutes have been a favorite way to start a stair rail, first because they are pleasing to the eye and, second, because they are comfortable to the hand. They lend a gentle slope to the start of every stair. Viewed from above, a volute spirals down into an eye, a focus, like the place where you drown in a whirlpool, where everything begins and ends — nothingness.

But I’m going off on a tangent, as usual, and Gary’s going to get upset with me. Back to carpentry.

Commercial volutes

Even commercial handrail systems — available from local lumberyards — include volutes. They are always the most expensive parts in the catalogue. High-end stair part companies offer handsome volutes and attractive stairs can be built with them. But for the most part, manufactured volutes have a few failings:

• They aren’t available in a wide range of species

• They aren’t available in a wide range of patterns.

• Available patterns are not for the most part historically correct.

Machine-made volutes are primarily designed for just that — to be made on automatic or semi-automatic machinery. The curves are kept open so that rotating cutters can reach into every curve, which means the rail never spirals in on a center — they have no eye…exactly, they have no vision, they fail to provide a natural and necessary visual termination and starting place for railing.

A commercial volute with an ‘upeasing’ (right) must be installed higher above the starting step than a volute with a wreath (left).

In addition, for ease of construction, commercial volutes curve in elevation, and then curve in plan — they have no compound curves,  which means they remain level until the second tread and must be set high on every stair. For that reason, commercial volutes require long balusters and tall newels; a person starting up such a stair must raise their hand uncomfortably high. (See Fig. 5)

Fig. 5

~~~

Why carve a volute?

When I started building stairs, all manufactured parts were made of beech, and all the old stairs I looked at were mahogany or walnut. I had to make rail. And I had to make complex curved parts. The volute seemed like the hardest part to make. But it doesn’t have to be — not if you start with a good drawing. In fact, a full-size drawing makes the best template, too.

If you want to build the best stair possible, if you want to be a real stair builder, you’re going to have to make your own rail parts (yes! You’ll have to learn wood-turning, too, so you can make your own balusters and newel posts — but that’s another story.) This article will show you how we make volutes in our shop. We didn’t invent anything here — the volute in this article could have been made by a Boston stair builder for a brownstone in Beacon hill in 1790, but we will show you a few modern tricks and techniques that make things go faster, particularly computer drafting, and power carving. If you have good carpentry skills, a shop space with basic woodworking tools, and an adventurous spirit, carving a volute might be a good place to jump your finish carpenter chops up to the next level.

The drawings

A volute is really made from two pieces: the scroll section, which is the portion of the volute that is level and spirals to an eye, and the wreath section.

A wreath is a stair building term for any compound curved piece of rail.

I draw the volute full size in both plan (from the top) and in elevation (from the side). Then I use these drawings to make full size patterns of both pieces. The patterns will go to the shop and be used to saw out the blanks and then carved. At the end of this story, Mike Kennedy will show you how that’s done.

Before you start

Here’s what you need to know before you start your drawing:

• What is the stair rise and run?

• What does the rail look like — it’s best to have section or piece of the rail.

• What’s the code on how wide and high the rail must be?

• How wide is the volute? And are you sure there’s enough room?

Think about the design, too. You don’t want a volute that ends at the center too big — like a dinner plate, or one that ends too small, like a cabinet knob.

Layout the volute

To draw the volute in plan view, I follow the same procedure every time. I draw the skirt board, second tread, baluster, and a short section of straight rail. Then I draw the volute. Next, I draw the bottom tread, because the stair is going to be better if the shape of the bottom tread follows the shape of the volute. Besides, I’ll need a pattern for the tread and riser too, and the drawing provides that pattern.

Start with the second riser

Here are a few tips that should help you better understand the process of drawing a volute by hand. Watch the video, read these tips, do both again, and then practice drawing a volute yourself.

The first step in drawing the volute is establishing the edge of the skirt board and the edge of the second riser. Where they come together I draw a baluster. The centerline of the handrail goes through the center of the baluster, and the inside and outside of the rail are drawn 1-3/8” parallel to the centerline, to give a rail which is 2-3/4” wide. Once these elements are drawn, I measure downhill 2 in. from the second riser to draw the first stop line, where the straight rail meets the curved volute. I’ve found that 0 to 4 in. will work on most stairs: I want to design the stair so that the curve of the bullnose on the bottom tread follows the curve of the volute; that way all the balusters will have the same relation to the bottom tread as they have to the straight part of the stair. In other words, the face of all the balusters will be plumb flush with the face of the skirt and with the riser of the bullnose tread. If 2 in. doesn’t work, it doesn’t mean you have to start all over. You can just redraw the location of the riser until the bullnose tread looks right!

I want to design the stair so that the curve of the bullnose on the bottom tread follows the curve of the volute...

The Shrinkback

A shrinkback is the amount that the spiral decreases every quarter turn of the volute. In this case, with a 11 in. volute and a 1 in. shrinkback, my first radius will be 6 in. (above), my second radius will be 5 in. (below), which adds up to the total width of the volute, 11 in.

For every quarter turn, I shrink 1 in. toward the interior of the volute, and each time I also draw a stop line at 90 degrees through the new center point --- which establishes the end of each quarter turn.

I make this same step for radiuses #1, #2, #3, and #4.

The forth radius center point is established automatically, it’s the intersection of the spring line and the stop line from the #3 radius. At this point, the centers have formed a 1-in. square. Radius 4 starts at stop line 3, and ends up back on the original start line.

For the fifth radius, the shrink back is 1/2 in. instead of 1 in., otherwise the spiral won’t close in on itself like a nautilus shell. A 1/2 in. shrink back makes the radius 2 1/2 in.

For the sixth radius, the shrink back is also 1/2 in. instead of 1 in. And that completes the spiral. The center of the last radius is the center of the 1-in. square; it’s the center of the eye of the volute; and it’s the center of the volute newel.

Layout the wreath

The wreath section is the upper section of the volute, which transitions from raked to level as it turns through the first 90 degrees. It has a compound curve because it curves in both plan and elevation. That compound curve makes it much more difficult to draw. In fact, it’s even difficult to visualize. Look at the animation below and you’ll see the drawing and the two patterns we’re about to create.

We have the plan view of the wreath from the volute drawing. In order to make a pattern for cutting the wreath from a block of wood, I first turn the scroll section drawing 90 degrees, so that I can see the elevation of the wreath. You’ll see me turn the drawing in the video, but the Sketchup drawings included with the text start with the stair turned horizontally.

Because the wreath turns and twists, curving in plan and elevation, I need two drawings, both of which are drawn in elevation and plan view. I know this is going to confuse a lot of readers. When I first learned how to draw a wreath, the only guide I had was a drawing in a fifty year old book. Learning from that drawing felt like breaking my own leg over and over again. It took me the better part of a week to figure it out the first time.

I’ve been trying to explain this process to my friend Gary Katz for ten years; now he wishes he’d paid better attention in geometry class! Most of you will get it much quicker!  I’m sure the video, this additional text, and the drawings (my thanks to Todd Murdock for the wonderful Sketchup illustrations!), will make it much easier to understand how to draw this complicated three-dimensional piece. Even Gary has drawn his own volute now, and we’re going to make him carve it next time he visits the shop!

The Elevations

Because the wreath curves in plan and elevation, and because we want to get it out of the smallest piece of expensive and rare mahogany as possible, we have to visualize the block of wood at an angle. That angle is the pitch of the stair!

Also, because the wreath curves in two planes --- it rises up the pitch of the stair and it turns 90 degrees with the spiral --- we need to make a pattern for both the top and the side of the wreath.

Drawing the patterns

I always start with an elevation view of the entire volute, which will give us the pattern for the side of the block. I use a common shop class technique of drawing the elevation dimensions under the plan view, which makes it easy to carry the dimensions from the plan view to the elevation view.

The first line. Start by drawing a line down from the center of the handrail right where the scroll section and the wreath section join (Line A, below).  I find that a 12-in or 13 in. line usually allows enough room to draw the whole elevation — the Side Pattern and the Top pattern; we’ll do the side pattern first.

The second line. Next, draw a horizontal line across the bottom of the drawing, like I said, about a foot below the plan view (bottom line, below, 13 in. below volute). That line helps establish the elevation of the handrail at the pitch of the stair. Think of that horizontal line as the run of the stair. Pretty soon, that line will become the centerline of the level scroll section.

The center of the handrail. The run of the stair, or the tread, is 10 in. I measure 10 in. from the intersection of line A and the ‘run’ line. From that point, I measure up the rise of the stair, which is 7 3/8 in. An elevation drawing is really like looking at the edge of the riser. That’s what we’re seeing now.

Next, I draw the centerline of the raked handrail by connecting the rise and run lines at the rake of the stair (center diagonal line, below).

After that, it’s easy to draw the top and bottom of the raked handrail. The rail is 2 1/4 in. tall, so I place a line 1 1/8 in. above and 1 1/8 in. below the center line.

The Top Joint. To start the top joint, I draw a vertical line from the plan view down to the elevation view, from the very top of the volute, where the straight rail meets the curved rail (see Line B, below). That line is really an extension of the Start Line, which is also the 11” line drawn for the initial spiral of the volute.

Next, I draw a line (K) square to the handrail so that it intersects line B at the centerline of the hand rail (see below). That’s the exact location where the wreath meets the straight rail, and that square line would make a butt joint. However, the joint would be clipped slightly on the outer curve, and besides, I like to have a little extra wood on the wreath for carving the curve to the straight rail, so I add another 2 in. or 3 in. to the block; that is line L which becomes the glue line and the end of the block.

The Bottom Joint. Now we need to draw the joint where the bottom of the wreath meets the level handrail of the volute. To describe that joint, I have to establish both the height and the width of the handrail. I start by using the first horizontal line I drew, at the bottom of the drawing — that is the centerline of the level scroll section (below).

Next, draw a line 1 1/8 above and below that centerline, establishing the side of the handrail in elevation (below).

I layout the width of the handrail the same way, using line A, the first vertical line I drew, which was carried down from the volute — the center of the handrail where the scroll section meets the wreath section. Because the handrail is 2 3/4 in. wide, I draw a line 1 3/8 in. on each side of  A. Those lines are F & G.  (The top and bottom lines of the wreath are darkened for clarity)

Now I can trace a small piece of the handrail, in elevation, right on to the drawing, in the rectangle formed between F & G and the top and bottom of the horizontal rail.  Believe it or not, that endgrain section is the face of the buttjoint at the bottom of the wreath!

The side pattern. We’ve finished the elevation, now we can use it to make a paper pattern for the side of the block. We need a piece of wood thicker than the height of the 2 1/4 in. rail, so I use a piece of 12/4 or 2 3/4 in. thick stock.

To establish the top and bottom of the 2 3/4 in. block of wood on the elevation, draw a line 1 3/8 in. above and below the centerline of the raked rail (Lines D & E). To locate the lower end of the block, draw a line (J) square to D & E, so that it just misses the bottom corner of the handrail near the bottom of line F. Because the top of the block is already defined by line L (see Side-Top Views), we now have the side pattern complete (below).

The top pattern. Before starting the Top Pattern, extend lines G & B to line D (below).  By looking at the plan view of the volute above, we can tell that the wreath section is 6 in. wide. The block is already at the pitch of the stair, so it’s easy to draw the top view at the same pitch, right above the side view.

I start by measuring 6 in. up from Line D, and strike Line H, parallel to line D (below). That establishes the width of the block and the top pattern. Extending lines J & L to line H completes the rectangle of the Top Pattern.

Next, draw a line 2 3/4 in. from and parallel to line H — that represents the inner edge of the straight rail (M, below).

Layout the Ellipses. Where line B intersects line D is the center point of both ellipses (P-1, below). Draw a line (B-1) square across the top of the pattern, parallel to line L-1. Line B-1 defines the ends of both the inner and the outer edge of the ellipse.

Don’t forget we added a couple inches to the wreath to make it easier for Mike to blend the wreath and the straight rail. So from line B-1 to line L-1, the wreath is carved straight.

The intersection of line F and line D (P-2) is the starting point of the outer ellipse.

The intersection of line G and line D (P-3) is the starting point of the inner ellipse.

The intersection of line H and line B-1 is P-4.

The intersection of line M and line B-1 is P-5.

Draw the ellipses.

I use a trammel with two points and a pencil, and a small square, to draw the ellipses for the inside and outside of the rail. You’ll have to watch the video to see how it’s done, but here’s how to set the trammels — just remember, always set one of the trammel points on P-1!

For the outside ellipse, put the pencil on P-4, then set the inner trammel point on P-1. Next, move the pencil to P-2, then set the outer trammel point on P-1. Swing the ellipse with the points held against the square the way I do it in the video.

For the inside ellipse set the pencil on P-5, then set the inner trammel point on P-1. Next, move the pencil to P-3 and set the outer trammel point on P-1. Again, swing the ellipse with the points held against the square the way I do it in the video.

Once the drawing and patterns are completed, I hand them off to Mike Kennedy. From that point on, the woodwork is in Mike’s hands. Watch the video to see how Mike uses the paper patterns to cut the wreath out on the bandsaw.

And don’t miss Mike’s article on carving the volute. If you were lost at any point during this article, don’t feel bad. I’m confident that if you watch the videos, read the text, look at the pictures, and draw it yourself, you’ll understand the process and be a better carpenter for it.

If you use CAD software for drawing your work, here’s a short video that should help.

If you read this story, then draw and carve a volute…please take pictures and send them in to the magazine! Share your work so we’ll all learn more about our craft.

Every time I’m asked to bid or to build a set of stairs, I unroll the plans, look at the details, and shake my head. Architects rarely include and often they don’t even have the basic information I need, the few specifications that allow me to build a staircase that will meet the stringent requirements of building code in my area.

(Note: Click any image to see a larger version. Hit "back" button to return to article.)

Before I can layout a set of stairs, I need to know the exact thickness of the finish floors, including the floors at the top of the stairs, at the bottom of the stairs, as well as on any intermediate landings. I also need to know the run of the stairs—exactly where the architect wants the stairs to start on the first floor and finish on the second, third, fourth, or fifth. And finally, I need to know the exact thickness of the finish treads. Once I have that information, I can make a story pole that allows me to build a stair with confidence that’s dead accurate, never once stopping to scratch my head over the calculations.

A story pole: Every measurement on a stick

Before I describe the layout process, I can’t stress enough the importance for every step of a staircase to be exactly the same height; a 1/4-in. difference between steps can be dangerous if not fatal. And with all the factors that go into a set of stairs, it’s very easy to make a mistake in layout or construction, which can throw off the consistency of the rises.

As with all my finish carpentry, I follow two rules that make my staircases accurate and right: First, I design and layout the work completely before I build it. Second, I start with the finish and work back to the rough.

For complicated projects, a fullscale drawing or loft always works best. (I never depend on the architects 1/4-in. scale drawing—It’s not nearly accurate enough for stair building). But for most of the stairs I build, I just make a story pole, a crucial tool for precision stair building.

A story pole is basically a full-size elevation drawing shrunk down into one dimension—a line, in this case a 1×4 stick. I start by making field measurements, the first of which is the floor-to-floor height from where the stair will start—about the middle of the first riser location—to where the stair will end—about the middle of the top riser.

Measuring the floor-to-distance

Taking an accurate floor-to-floor height measurement is critical. On rare occasions, as with a spiral stair, these points might be plumb above each other, but in most cases, there can be 10 or 12 feet of horizontal distance between the starting point and the ending point of a staircase. We all know that floors aren’t level. In 10 or 12 feet, I’ve seen floors rise or fall more than an inch, especially if one end is in the middle of a floor and the other is at a bearing wall.

[A story pole is basically a full-size elevation drawing shrunk down into one dimension—a line, in this case a 1x4 stick. See photo, RIGHT.]

Stabila Plumb-Bob Line Laser

To measure the floor-to-floor height accurately, most folks use either a long spirit level or a water level, but a laser level is the fastest and most accurate way to

find the difference in elevation between two points that are separated by a large horizontal distance.

For all my stair work, I use a Stabila Plumb-Bob Line Laser. This single tool emits a horizontal line that’s easy to see for making measurements like these. (It’s a pulsing laser as well, so even if I can’t see the line, I can use a receiver to ‘hear’ the line). The laser also has plumb dots which are invaluable for setting newel posts, balusters, etc.

[Measurements in motion. In the animated drawing above, we zoom in on three trouble areas for stair builders.]

I set up the laser so that the horizontal laser line falls at a convenient height between floors, and so that the laser line passes both over the bottom tread location as well as under the top tread location. I measure from the rough floor down to the laser line at the top-riser location, and from the rough floor up to the laser line at the bottom riser location. Adding the two dimensions together gives me the rough floor-to-floor dimension. I mark that number in my ever-present notebook. While the laser is set up, I also mark the laser line on the studs where the stair is going. More on that later.

Add the upper finished floor, subtract the lower

MEASURE UP from where the stair begins.

Before I can layout the stairs or my story pole, I need to know the thickness of the finish floors, especially if the lower floor thickness is different than the upper floor, which is often the case. For example, the second floor might have 3/4-in. tongue-and-groove hardwood over the subfloor. I add whatever the thickness is to the rough floor-to-floor dimension I found earlier.

...AND MEASURE DOWN from the top of the stair for the total rise of the stair.

Frequently, the stairs I’m asked to build land on a lower floor that will have a subfloor for hydronic heat, plus 3/4-in. hardwood, or thick 1 1/4-in. tile, or even 2-in. stone! That total dimension–the thickness of any subfloor plus the finished floor at the bottom of the stair–must be subtracted from the floor-to-floor dimension. Adding the thickness of the upper floor and subtracting the thickness of the lower floor from the rough floor-to-floor dimension gives me the total height of the stairs, finished floor to finished floor.

Modern carpenters use calculators

Construction Master foot/inch calculator

As you can see, there’s a lot of fractional math involved in building stairs, which means lots of room for arithmetic errors—errors that must be avoided if you want the job to run smoothly and the stair to come out in the most pleasing manner. To minimize math errors, I always use a Construction Master foot/inch calculator for all my stair computations. Not only does a foot/inch calculator make it a lot easier to add, subtract, multiply and divide fractions of an inch, but it eliminates cumulative error. More on
that in a minute.

For the example we’ll be using in this article, I measured for a stair in my shop, going from the shop floor up to the loft. The floor thickness and change of direction of a landing adds other layout challenges, so I decided to plan for an intermediate landing with a right angle turn. I also decided that the loft will get 3/4-in. hardwood flooring, (typical for a second floor), and the main shop will have 3/4-in. hardwood installed over 1/2-in. hydronic subfloor.

Fig. 1

The measurement up to the laser from where the first tread lands on the shop floor is 45 5/16 in. The measurement down to the laser line from the loft is 54 3/8 in. By adding the two together in the calculator, we know the rough floor-to-floor measurement is 99 11/16 in. [See Fig. 1, LEFT]

Fig. 2

Next we add 3/4 in. for the finished loft floor, which gives us 100 7/16 in. Finally, we subtract 1 1/4 in. for the finished shop floor. That means the finished floor-to-floor distance is 99 3/16 in. [See Fig. 2, RIGHT] If I were measuring a jobsite, I’d write that number down in my Job Book.

CALCULATING THE RISES

Fig. 3

The next step is determining the distance in height between the finish treads, also called the net rise. To get this number, I usually divide the finish floor-to-floor dimension by 7-1/2 in., which is a good average rise for a residential stair. Unless the floor-to-floor figure is exactly divisible by 7 1/2—and I’ve never worked on one that has been—there will be a remainder. To get the number of rises for this example, I divide 99 3/16 in. by 7 1/2 in. The result is 13.225. I’m obviously not going to make 13 normal risers with a short one at the top. The point of the initial calculation is finding the precise number of risers needed for the stair. In this case, I round 13.225 down to the nearest whole number, 13.

Start at the bottom. Hit the mem+ button and the calculator gives the series of heights for the finished treads.

Dividing the finished floor-to-floor height, 99 3/16 in. by 13 gives us 7-5/8 in. rounded off by the calculator to the nearest 1/16th. (By pressing the ‘Inch’ key on the calculator, you can see what I mean. The decimal fraction for 7 5/8 is 7.625, but the decimal fraction for this calculation is really 7.629808. That’s the fraction the calculator will be working with, while giving me the nearest number in a more friendly format).

Fig. 3a

Press the ‘Inch’ key once more to return to fractional inches. Then press ‘Memory +’ [circled button on left] so the calculator remembers that fraction.

Anyone who has ever laid out a stair with a framing square and gauge stops, or used a gauge block to layout repetitive elements such as dentil blocks or wainscoting stiles, has probably experienced cumulative error. If you lay out a stair stringer by stepping off the risers with a framing square, no matter how carefully you set your stops, you could be off by more than 1/2 in. when you get to the last rise. That much of a difference is not acceptable and won’t pass close inspection or code.

By using the calculator’s memory function, I avoid cumulative errors that occur when extremely small fractions, maybe 1/64 or 1/32 in. add up in a repetitive calculation. By default, Construction Master Calculators are programmed to round off small decimal fractions to the nearest 1/16 in. (You can change the programming if you want to work to 1/32 in. but it’s not necessary). If the calculator comes up with a figure that slightly smaller than 3/32, it will round the number displayed down to 1/16 in., while it continues to work with the finer decimal fraction.

[Pay special attention to the detail of the thickness of the finish materials and subfloor and any intermediate landings, LEFT]

Making the story pole

I like to use a clean, straight 1×2 or 1×4 for making story poles, one that’s a little longer than the floor-to-floor distance. I set the pole on horses or on a bench, and hook my tape at one end. (For the sake of precision and clarity, I always hook my tape measure on the bottom of the pole).

LABEL every line carefully and accurately.

First I mark off the height of the finish floor at the bottom of the stair, which includes hydronic heating and the hardwood flooring.

With the tape still hooked, I run up to the other end and mark the rough floor-to-floor distance, and then add on the thickness of the upper finish floor.

Next, I mark the tops of the finish treads. I find their locations with the calculator. [See Fig. 4, LEFT and Fig. 5, RIGHT]

Fig. 4

Fig. 5

That means for your first finish tread location, you must add the thickness of the hydronic subfloor and finish flooring. My last keystroke ‘Memory +’ entered the decimal fraction into the calculator’s memory.

Next I add the thickness of the lower flooring. By using the keystrokes below, the calculator automatically adds that amount to the tread height, putting the first tread at 8 7/8 in.

That simple sum is a critical first step in laying out the story pole.

Locating the tops of all the remaining treads is now extremely easy. We just asked the calculator to add the tread-to-tread rise to the first floor thickness. Now the calculator is ready to give us the rest of the tread heights with the lower flooring already factored in.

As you climb up the story pole, marking the finish top of each tread, you’ll notice that the sixth tread lays out at 47 in. But the calculator puts the seventh tread at 54 11/16 in., not at 54 5/8 in.! As I explained earlier, the calculator isn’t adding 7 5/8 each time, it’s adding the decimal fraction, 7.629808. When the “leftover” fraction in the calculator’s memory hits 1/16 in., the calculator automatically adds that amount to the next result.

[Click, watch, learn. In this short video clip the author takes us through story pole layout with a few nifty tips.]

After marking the tops of every finish tread, I’m ready to work back to the rough dimensions. Remember, always start with the finish and work back to the rough. I detail each tread down the thickness of the finish tread, and down again the thickness of the subtreads. The lowest line at each tread is the height of the cut on the stringer for  that tread. I pay special attention as I detail the thickness of the finish materials and subfloor at any intermediate landings, as well as at the top and bottom of the stair. These are places where the rough rise can vary because the thickness of the finished flooring might be different than at the finish treads.

Stand the story pole up on the subfloor at the bottom tread location, and mark the location of the laser line.

For example, the treads might be detailed down 1 1/16 in. for a 5/4 tread. But the intermediate landing, which gets 3/4-in. hardwood, is detailed down only 3/4 in. The landing will get a rabbeted nosing so that it looks like it’s 1 1/16-in. thick, but the flooring is actually only 3/4-in. thick.

When all finish and rough stair parts are located and labeled on the story pole, I stand it up on the subfloor at the bottom tread location, and mark the location of the laser line. The story pole is then complete.

Now I have a full-scale elevation of the stair layout, all in the compact package of a 1×4. I can take the dimensions of the rough common risers, as well as those of the top, bottom and landing risers directly from it. I can also line up the laser line on the story pole with the laser marks I made on the wall studs, and I can transfer the heights of frame elements right from the story pole to the house frame. In the end the story pole will help me get all the finish risers the correct height.

According to the code in my area, the difference between tread heights can’t exceed 3/16 in. If you care about craftsmanship, and want to leave behind exemplary work, challenge yourself. Try to build your stairs so that the difference between risers is 1/8 in. or less. And at the same time you’ll avoid unpleasant visits from the building inspector.

Read this article in its original format (with more images) at TiC Issue 1!

AUTHOR BIO

Jed Dixon designs, builds, and restores stairs and stair parts in historic New England homes. A sometime-Luddite*, Jed uses power tools in his shop to make everything from treads to turned balusters to hand-carved volutes and railings. And while he orders the occaisional custom part from a local CNC operator, and he’d never part with his Macintosh, I-Phone, or Ipod. Jed and his wife Helen raised their three kids in a 19th century farm house on their rural Rhode Island farm. Kip, their working sheep dog, lets visitors know that stair building may be Jed’s profession, but the farm is his passion.

* A follower of Ned Ludd, a mythical revolutionary said to have destroyed two knitting machines in the late 18th century which inspired a rebellion by early 19th century skilled craftsmen against the mechanized world of the industrial revolution.