by Clint Harp
By the time you read this, our first full season will have aired. However it all turns out, shooting the show was a wonderful and insane ride, one of the craziest my family has had up to now. We shot an episode in Arlington, which is about a hundred miles north of Waco. For that show, we installed a triple-decker bunk bed and made a solid ash custom Ping-Pong table and completely gave the homeowners’ space new life. But what you won’t see on the episode is how Kelly and I had to step to the back of a moving truck to settle an argument over something so small and stupid that I can’t even recall exactly what it was. It wasn’t about the pieces we were building or the location of the shelves. At the heart, it was about figuring out how two opinionated entrepreneurs who are always pushing for the best can work together on an intensely challenging project without driving each other nuts. Truth is, I’m most of the problem. For crying out loud, I’m the guy who, during year one of marriage, brought my wife to tears in a grocery store aisle over a stick of butter. I have a hard time letting things go.
Kelly, whose early life had its own share of pain and confusion, has sometimes felt the same, which is why I find it incredibly comical that we would decide to start a company together and work side by side every day. And yet I wouldn’t want to walk this road with anyone else. I’m a different and better person because of my wife. And we’ve made something great together. A home. A family. A life. A love. A business. And even though none of it has been easy, it’s been the best and most enjoyable ride of our lives.
I don’t know what our show will look like in the end, but every episode is sure to be a thirty-minute snapshot of what can happen if you fight like hell for the people you love and the work you believe in. Ultimately, Wood Work is the story of two kids who grew each other up and, along the way, tried to make something beautiful with a band of friends. During twelve weeks of filming, we put all our passions, our hopes, our fears, and our dreams out on the table. We sweated. We cried. We fought. We laughed. And we just about wore ourselves into the ground so that we could finish strong. Whether or not the show finds its own passionate audience in the DIY universe, I can promise you one thing: it will be real.
* * *
As we started our family’s new chapter, another one came to a close. Even as we were shooting Wood Work, my team and I continued banging together furniture for Joanna all throughout Fixer Upper’s fifth season. But halfway through, Chip and Jo posted a heartfelt video announcing that season of Fixer Upper would be their last. Fans were stunned. Kelly and I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but we were surprised as well. In the end, the Gaineses were bowing out when they wanted to and on their own terms, and for the reasons that were most important to them—and that’s probably something that needs to be seen more than any episode. Whether Chip and Joanna are renovating houses on the air, or they’re off exploring other ventures, they will always be a couple of dreamers and doers, and I love that about them.
Wherever my own path leads next, I’ll always carry with me fond memories from my time on Fixer Upper, the highs and lows, and those stressful yet exhilarating days when I barely had time to put the final touches on a table before it made its on-air debut. And of course, I’ll forever be grateful for the way viewers connected with Chip and Jo, as well as with me, the carpenter; Jimmy Don, the metal designer; and Shorty, the faithful right-hand man to Chip.
Back in season 4, Jo and the crew came by the shop one day and filmed a design scene in which she asked me to build a pair of console tables for the entryway of a house out in the country. That episode will always be one of my favorites. It’s such a great example of our teamwork. Jo threw out a design idea, and I contributed my own ideas about how we could build it, and together we came up with something. In this case, I knew I had some thick old slabs of wood out back that we had salvaged from a burn pile. With the cameras rolling, Jo followed me out to our wood barn and I dug through and found the pieces I thought might be perfect for the job.
“Jo, look at these,” I said, lifting a heavy block of weathered wood. “I could take these and turn a couple of pedestals, leave it all raw. I think it would rock.”
“Yep, that’s it,” Jo said. “Go for it. I love it.”
And that was that. No script. No plan. Just making a design happen on the fly. That’s how we did it on the show. It’s also how we did it in our lives.
Throughout the filming of Fixer Upper, I was asked to build benches, beds, swings, candlesticks, chests of drawers, and of course tables. Some rectangular tables, some square, some with pedestals, some round, some painted, and some stained, and a few incredibly long. Each time I filmed a delivery scene, I’d wait outside of the Fixer Upper house, feeling incredibly proud of the work I’d completed with my team back at the shop. Until my very last delivery, that is. Five seasons of crafting high-quality furniture, and my final project was a plywood corn hole set. Corn hole is a simple game, usually played outdoors, during which a couple of people toss beanbags at an elevated ramp with a hole in it, trying to get the bag in the hole. It’s great fun, and I actually toss a mean game of corn hole myself.
But even so, building a corn hole set for my last project was a bit anticlimactic. But all that went out the window when I learned that the homeowner was a US Marine. With so many in my family in the service, I’ve grown up incredibly grateful for their sacrifice. I was only making a corn hole set, but I wanted to make it special. To spice up the design, we inlaid teak down at the bottom and had a local company, Hole in the Roof, engrave the Marines logo in the right-hand corner. It looked amazing, and Jo loved it. When I delivered it, we even played a round, which I’m pretty sure I won, or at least I hope I did, as I think I had talked some trash about my skills. Once we finished, the producer announced, “And that’s a wrap for Clint Harp on Fixer Upper!” And just like that, an entire era of my life came to an end—in a corn hole.
CHAPTER 16
* * *
Around This Table
When I’m done with a table and sending it off to its new home, I’m so happy knowing that family, friends, or strangers will gather around a piece I built. That table will tell their stories and hold their memories. Arguments will be had at that table, love will grow, and laughter will ensue. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner will be served and enjoyed, and buried deep in the table’s grain will be the recollection of those meals and the time spent together. Within the fiber of the wood will be family secrets and the kinds of conversations that only true friends share. The table will hold up under the weight of deep pain and intense emotion. Its surface will forever bear the oily marks and elbow grease of those who’ve lingered there. And it will gladly absorb the carvings of a young boy who might leave his loving mark as a reminder that here, he sat. Here, he dreamed. And here, around this table, he began the journey.
I have wanted to write a book for many years, which is why it’s funny that an opportunity I never even imagined—being on TV—came first. In fact, as I look back on these forty years of my life, just about nothing turned out exactly as I thought it would. I play a strange game with myself sometimes: I think about all the possible outcomes of a given situation and predict how it will unfold. I love the game, because I’m never right. No matter how many times I play out a scenario in my head, there are still other possibilities out there. Now, if life is going to be just one big surprise after another, why not veer off the beaten path and invent our own journey? At a young age, amid the unpredictability of my childhood, I decided that’s how I’d live. I’d find my own way, and what I didn’t know, I’d figure out. What I didn’t have, I would work around. What I didn’t understand, I would learn. I’d become an apprentice to life and its grand adventures, staying open to the potential in each moment and learning from master teachers along the way.
One of my first master teachers was my granddad Martin. I used to sit at the edge of his jobsites, gazing on as he tore down, built up, and constructed new houses to carve out a livelihood for his family. As the years went on, it became clear
to me that there were great chunks of my granddad’s life that he’d like to take another crack at, events and relationships he wished he could do over. He never said those words, but his actions and demeanor during his later years showed me that. In his own ways he was teaching me not to make the same mistakes he had.
“I really know how to just walk away from something, don’t I?” Granddad Martin once reflected as we strolled through his cluttered hand-built barn, which housed an endless collection of tools and unfinished projects. There were times like that one in the spring of 2005 when he let me in. In that old wooden barn, he cracked open the door a bit, and I could see what haunted him. I could see that he was disappointed and sad, not so much about the state of that barn, but about the possibilities and people he’d let slip away. I could see he felt the pain over some of the choices he made, and I could feel him hoping I’d choose a different path.
A few weeks later he gave me a challenge.
“Clint,” he asked me, “have you ever taken a hand planer and done the work with your own muscles to make a rough piece of lumber just right?”
“No, Granddad, I haven’t.”
“Well, you need to,” he told me. “You need to make a table using all the old tools. The way the old-timers used to do it. Take your time. And do it right the first time so you don’t have to go back and do it again. Make it last forever.”
For the longest time, I thought he was talking about furniture. And of course, in some ways, he was. But whether he or I knew it in that moment, building instructions weren’t what he was passing down to me. He wasn’t handing down the timeless craft of classic joinery, or reminding me that wood could be bent, twisted, and shaped by hand tools just as well as it could be cut and sanded by machines. He was telling me to do my life right. He was telling me to see him, his life, and what he had left unfinished, and do better.
My grandfather was a builder. He was also a man on whom I’d trained my eyes from an early age, and I kept him in my sight until the day he died at age ninety-three. He knew I was watching. And for all that he decided not to care about along his own journey, he decided to care about me. He made sure I knew how important it was not simply to get a job done, but to excel at it, to be thorough and meticulous and passionate about whatever I was creating. A man I loved who had gotten life wrong on many counts was passing along the art of getting it right.
I accepted his torch. And as I’ve poured my heart into learning his craft, I’ve picked up a few techniques of my own. I’ve honed my woodworking skills late into the night and in the early hours before dawn. I’ve stood over my lathe making countless table legs, candlesticks, pedestals, and bowls. In the heat of the Texas sun, I’ve sweated from every pore while making tongue-and-groove joints and chiseling out the tightest mortises I could. Alone in my shop, or alongside my crew, I’ve battled with my inexperience as I’ve tried to figure out the next challenge. I’ve also sat alongside millions and watched myself on television, looking like a master craftsman and knowing I’m anything but.
What I am is a journeyman. A dreamer. A kid who once sat at the base of a tree and imagined what was possible. A guy who now stands at the foot of the mountain trying to claw my way to the top, knowing there’s another peak right around the corner. These days, I’m okay with landing in a field of unknowns and being required once again to figure things out. I’m okay with the uncertainty and unknowns of life, both in carpentry and in my walk of faith. I’m not the guy who once left for Europe, thinking I had all the spiritual answers for the world. Not even close.
I’m walking through this world not in search of a trail to follow, but in recognition that the trail is waiting for me to blaze. It is up to me to truly be me. And if Kelly and I love each other well; if we love our children with all our heart; if we live our lives with love for anyone who crosses our path; and if we try to become the best versions of ourselves, day by day—that will be the greatest work of our lives. If we achieve that, maybe our kids will grow up and do the same and one day pass that on to their children.
Once I figured all this out, the Bible stories and scripture verses of my youth began to make so much more sense. The pieces slipped together. If God truly does want me, the person He created, to be a reflection of His love, creativity and power, then doing the work I was put here to do is the best way for me to accomplish that. And for me, right now, part of that work is in a carpentry shop, my face covered in sawdust, my tools in hand, and all my security blankets tossed aside. And some of that work is also sharing my story, whether through public speaking, writing a book, or making a show. And I share it not because I think it’s the most amazing story ever, but rather because I hope that my experiences might push you forward in yours. We all have something to give, and in my case, that’s a story of a boy who grew up to make tables—a place where all people can come together and find common ground in a world that is increasingly divided.
* * *
Wood and glue. Simple ingredients, but incredibly sturdy and effective. Use them right and everything will fit together and stay that way for a long time. Using these tried-and-tested methods always makes me feel more connected to the master woodworkers who passed down their hard-won wisdom and techniques. When I can tell the new owner of a piece I’ve built that their table or hutch or vent-a-hood was put together using wood and glue, with not a single nail anywhere, for me that is where carpentry and artistry intersect. But while craft is super important, woodworking is also about function. Serendipitously, right before I started building furniture full-time, I caught a documentary about charter schools in New York City, and it highlighted a young, hardworking single mom in Manhattan who spent her days doing everything she could to care for her daughter. At night, they came home to a small apartment, which was completely empty except for a short stepladder and two mattresses on the floor. When it was time to eat dinner, the mother served her daughter mac and cheese. The little girl placed the plate on the top rung of the stepladder, sat on the bottom rung, and slipped her legs through as she settled down to her meal.
That single image stayed with me. It eventually helped tip the scales. And I wanted to see as many families sitting around a table as possible, because it’s around a table that we learn and grow and dream and find love and work through doubt, and gather with others for the most important moments of our lives. The tabletops, the skirts, the legs beneath—the basic wooden pieces shaped by carpenters for centuries and held together by classic joinery and some glue—provide more than just a place to sit. They give us a space in which to craft our lives.
* * *
I’d been sitting at a table in Baylor’s Armstrong Browning Library for three months straight, writing this book in a room that looked like it was from the set of Downton Abbey. One day toward the end I looked around and noticed a verse by the English writer and poet Robert Browning engraved on the base of a bookcase which read, “As the runner snatched the torch from runner still.” It struck me that I hadn’t noticed this before and I decided to look up the poem from which it was from. The lines were from his famous poem “Paracelsus,” which celebrated the life of a master alchemist. I was further struck by these lines: But you have link’d to this, your enterprize, an arbitrary and most perplexing scheme, of seeing it in strange and untried paths.
Strange and untried paths. Those words resonated like a gong. The verse itself seemed to frame my story—my adventure. I hoped that as I pursued my “arbitrary and most perplexing scheme,” I’d continue to enjoy the process of learning, of figuring out how to strum a guitar and use a lathe, and meet the endless number of unknown experiences that would no doubt come my way. I hoped to never feel like I knew so much that I didn’t have to keep searching for answers, and I hoped never to forget that life is a constant surprise.
I’ve been a carpenter on one TV show, and by the time you read this, knock on wood, I will have been on a second one. But that is just a part of my story. As thankful as I am for the chance to connect with all those
who tune in, I certainly didn’t quit my six-figure sales job to become a television personality. I walked away because I wanted a life that fulfilled me. I walked away because I wanted to make a contribution that would last long after I’m gone. With Kelly’s blessing, I traded an existence that was comfortable for the terrifying unknown, because I hoped our kids would one day look back and see what’s possible when we go for our dreams. In the end, my life has been about dusting off old passions, living without a safety net, and leaving a mark on the path for others to follow. And that’s more than the point of my journey. As I see it, it’s the purpose of everyone’s.
I’ve enjoyed writing this book even if the process was much harder than I could’ve ever imagined. Now I’m going back to the shop to build something. Probably another table. A table where all are invited, all are welcomed, and all are encouraged to be the only thing they should be—the truest and most beautiful version of themselves possible.
Acknowledgments
I’ve long thought that gratitude might just be the key to life. If you can find something or someone to be thankful for, in even the harshest of situations, you can probably make it through. When it comes to the scores of people who’ve come alongside me, both on my path to the present moment and in the writing of this book, I don’t quite know where to begin, but here goes.