“They didn’t talk like this before.”
“Before what?”
“Before the burl.”
The sawyer nodded.
“Good lesson.”
“What?”
“Pay attention to people who become polite only after they decide you’re useful.”
The boy remembered.
The first serious offer came six months later.
Not for the whole collection.
For one medium triangle-marked burl.
A luthier from Tennessee traveled to Vermont personally.
He made acoustic guitars.
Not factory guitars.
Individual instruments.
He examined the provenance.
The cut face.
Scanner images.
He did not ask for a price immediately.
Instead, he asked the boy:
“What do you want this wood to become?”
The boy looked confused.
“Isn’t that your job?”
The luthier laughed.
“Fair.”
He explained.
A burl could be slabbed into decorative furniture.
Sliced into veneer.
Turned into bowls.
Cut into guitar backs and sides if grain orientation allowed.
Every choice destroyed the others.
The boy understood.
Once cut, you can’t uncut it.
The sawyer’s first rule.
The luthier proposed buying one section only after the burl was professionally opened.
He would pay for the cutting and accept the risk of defects in his allotted portion.
The boy’s mother looked at the numbers.
Several thousand dollars.
For part of one burl.
The boy stared.
Then asked:
“What happens if it’s really good?”
The luthier smiled.
“I make something really good.”
“Do I get more money?”
“No.”
The boy looked suspicious.
The luthier laughed.
“That’s why we agree before the cut.”
Honest.
The boy liked him.
They opened the burl.
The figure was extraordinary.
Not perfectly sound.
A central bark inclusion reduced yield.
Still, two matched guitar-back sets emerged with deep quilted figure.
The luthier nearly cried.
The boy watched.
“You really like wood.”
The man laughed.
“Occupational problem.”
He bought his section at the agreed price.
No renegotiation after discovering quality.
That impressed the boy more than the amount.
A year later, a package arrived.
Inside were photographs of a finished guitar.
The back looked like moving water.
The luthier included a note:
Your grandfather was right to wait.
The boy pinned the photograph above his desk.
He did not spend the money.
Not much.
He bought a better winter coat.
His mother made him replace boots.
He argued.
Lost.
The rest went into an account with restrictions until he became older.
The collection became a family asset.
Not a lottery ticket.
The sawyer made sure of that.
“Wood money disappears like any other money.”