Old Cedar
Read time: 6 minutes
The cedar was dried and fresh off the planer, its warm, aromatic, sap‑rich scent flooding the shop. The glow of all its summer seasons felt like a small pleasure offered up on a blustery January afternoon.
This wasn’t store‑bought, pre‑milled, knotty, cracked, sappy box‑store lumber. This was reclaimed from our decks last summer as we replaced them—those decks had tested time for fifty years at least, until the rot finally took them. I had no plans for the wood. I just started ripping it up on a whim.
The boards had soft, spongy end grain that oozed water and decay when squeezed. There was old rot and new rot, yet somehow those old nails held firm despite the wood’s condition. They were slick to the touch, leaving my hands feeling dirty. Piled high with rusted nails standing on guard in a hazardous heap of construction waste, the stack didn’t inspire the usual “oh, the things I can build.” It was more like: how fast can I get this mess off my property.
But to me, I still saw cedar. Yes, it had mould, rot, small stones embedded in the surface, and bugs crawling in the shadows. Many boards, hundreds of nails. But it was cedar that had lasted fifty years serving this house and the people who lived here. I had to look—simply because that’s who I am.
They weren’t all rotten. I took one with deep dark stain and rot and at least ten nails. Pulled them, cut the rotten ends off, and cleaned the board. Three passes through the jointer.
The wood was incredible. Old and deeply weathered, but solid. No rot. It looked like old growth, aged the way real wood does. And this was something that had value—at least to me. This wood wasn’t done. It was just done being a deck. If I wanted, it could be converted into more. If this had been any other wood, it would have been tossed. But cedar? Yeah, it has potential.
Much to the displeasure of my boys, they were voluntold to start pulling nails and cutting off rotten ends. They laid the boards out in the sun to dry in the summer air.
A couple of weeks later, we brought them into the shop for milling. This was the moment those old, dirty, smelly decking boards breathed again. Their grain opened, showing texture and colour that ran deep from fifty weathered Manitoba years. Each pass through the planer—steel knives removing the years—revealed secrets hidden beneath dirt and mold. That rich, signature cedar scent was alive, kept safe from time and weather.
The grain was tight. The colour deep, rich, and all heartwood. Knots were sparse. It read like old growth. I’ll call it such anyway.
After several hours of sweat and noise in the hot summer shop air—sawdust grit sticking to foreheads and arms—we had a clean, straight pile of cedar ready for building. It was rewarding watching the process unfold. Seeing what could be saved and what couldn’t. Where the wood rotted and where it didn’t.
And yes, it was hard on planer blades and jointer knives. But a trip to the sharpener and forty bucks later, all was back to normal.
We saved as much material from the dump as we could. Even the nails went for recycling. And after half a century of wear and weather, the wood would give up one more lesson as I taught Leo—a new‑generation craftsman—to build some deck chairs.
Most importantly, this wood gets another chance in our home. These chairs will sit proudly on our new deck, fresh‑faced and with many years left. I can already picture this summer: sitting in a new Muskoka chair, cracking a cold one, knowing exactly where that chair came from.
It was a lesson in life, in wood, in how to build better.
But today, the cold wind was whipping snow and whispering through the shop door. The whisper was lost in the hum of machines and the sweet summer scent of cedar. Milling was well underway as Leo and I finally cut into the pile. He had never made deck chairs, so it was time—every cabinetmaker needs to make his first set. My dad taught me, and now I’ll teach my son.
Leo milled, glued, sanded, traced, cut, sanded more, and applied finish to the cedar. Then assembled. Seeing firsthand how those rotted deck boards actually had value. I like building with cedar occasionally—the smell alone is worth it. Compared to what I’m used to, these chairs are a break from chasing perfection. After all, we let them sit outside with squirrels crawling on them, birds crapping on them, and spiders living in any joint they can find. But that’s okay. The rain will keep them clean. Cedar builds are a fresh breath from serious cabinetmaking.
Once the chairs were complete, Leo was proud of his. And we weren’t waiting for summer for a maiden voyage. We took them out into the snow and lit a fire in the pit. Grabbed some drinks and settled in. It was a bit cold, but we had a good afternoon.
This wood had already survived so many winters in this yard. These chairs weren’t strangers to a Manitoba winter—they’d lived through fifty years of seasons. Sitting in them on their second lease on life, it felt like the wood was saying bring it on.
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