JULY 10, 2026 – I don’t consider myself to be an “arts and crafts” person, though in my youth I did engage in what could be described as “craft.” For several summers up at the family cabin, on rainy days I made small birchbark canoes—stitched with strips of birchbark I sliced very carefully out of birchbark remnants. (On sunny days, I scavenged for more birchbark from dead but still standing birch. On windy days, by the way, I went sailing—a significant point for retrieval later in this post.)
My canoes turned out well, and a couple of them are still around. I even hand-carved miniature seats and canoe paddles for them. Four years ago, I built several “gnome homes,” and constructed two more a couple of years ago. The canoes and gnome homes were the extent of my journey into and out of Craftland. Until today.
Late this morning I found myself in a Michael’s craft store at a nearby shopping mall. I must’ve cut a puzzled image, mainly because I looked dazed, shuffling up one aisle and down another. I had reason to be stupefied by the volume and variety of arts and craft supplies and accessories. There were times when I nearly emerged from my wonderment to laugh out loud. “Who woulda thought!” . . . I thought.
As time progressed, my hands, spread to their limits, were juggling more items—multiple containers of acrylic craft paints among a kaleidoscope of choices; a package of brushes among dozens to choose from; a package of earring rings from the DIY jewelry section; and in the yarn department, special braided string among endless colors and color combinations and sorts of string, thread, “yarn floss” and . . . yarns. The hank of string I wanted had to be lifted off its spindle by one of my pinkies, but fortunately reason prevailed before I dropped all my already selected goods. Instead of having to stoop ignobly to retrieve them off the linoleum floor, I played it smart and dumped my supplies atop skeins of yarn. I was then able to fetch the string and examined it will a bit more grace.
When a cheerful store clerk asked if I was “finding everything I was looking for,” I said, “I’m not sure, but I know one thing: I’m finding everything I’m looking at.”
She laughed politely, then asked, “What’s your project?”
“I’m building sailboats.”
“Sailboats?”
For a second I thought she wondered if I needed more help than Michael’s was in the business of providing, since it lacked a gerontological therapy department.
“Model sailboats,” I said. “For my three young grandchildren.”
“Oh, that’s nice!”
“They’re going to be surprises for all three next month,” I said. “Who knows. If the sailboats are a hit, maybe I can patent a kit that will one day find its way onto shelves at Michael’s.”
The clerk rewarded me with another polite laugh before signing me up for Michael’s award program.
The idea for the project had occurred to me last Monday as I was cleaning up a worksite up at the Red Cabin. It was the very place where I’d pre-cut, painted, and pre-drilled all the members of my “Pergola on a Platform,” about which I wrote numerous blog posts last summer and fall. I’d cleaned up most of the scraps, but left in a pile were all the right-angle triangular remnants of numerous corner cuts. The pieces were of two sizes: bigger pieces, four-and-a-half inches tall, and the smaller pieces, all two-and-a-quarter-inches tall.
Though the wood had been left on the ground since October, it was all still in remarkably clean and solid shape. It all seemed like a waste to burn perfectly good wood, but I immediately scolded myself for having permitted that “OCD” thought to cross my mind. I then scooped up as many pieces as I could and dumped them into the nearby firepit. Upon repeating this action, however, the wooden triangles turned into sails. Yes, sails to a sailboat. Each of the bigger pieces was a mainsail, and each of the smaller triangles became a jib. I put two next to each other, leaving just enough room between the vertical sides for an imaginary mast. It didn’t take long to see white sails with broad colorful stripes, not unlike the brightly painted beach homes along Costa Nova (do Prado), seven miles west of Aveiro and about 30 miles south of Porto, Portugal.
Thus was launched a new project: one festively painted model wooden sailboat for each of the grandchildren. I’ve since “toyed” with the idea of adding all sorts of details, such as halyards, sheets, and a traveler (hence the string from Michael’s); a mast painted a metallic gray with silver rings (more inventory from Michael’s) attached to eyelets screwed into the sails; and a rudder. On each side of the bow, I’ll carefully paint the recipient’s name; on the transom, a clever name in the yachtsperson’s tradition.
This evening, while I was organizing my newly acquired craft supplies from Michael’s, I experimented with a more stylistic design—more elegant than whimsical; of varnished, not painted wood, with nothing more than the “sails” mounted on a piece of pine; no mast but enough space for the imagination to fit one there. Perhaps one of these for each of the grown-ups in the family.
Tomorrow I will dive into the project. With a little help from Michael’s, I’ll try to turn an idea into . . . a sailboat. You might not want to place an order yet, without proof that my idea will float. Stay tuned—and in good humor.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
