There are pieces of wood you measure twice, cut once. And then, there are pieces of wood you simply hold for a long moment—hands still, breath quiet—because you understand you’re not just holding material. You’re holding time.
The day I began turning the Tulip Poplar pen was one of those days. The shop was quiet except for the hum of tools and the soft rhythm of shavings falling to the floor. I remember stopping mid-turn, watching the golden-green grain catch the light just right. It wasn't just wood anymore. It was a story, a legacy, and, unexpectedly, a piece of my own heart.
From Jefferson’s Hands to Mine
Years ago, I stood at the edge of Monticello with my wife. She was pregnant with our son, and I took a photo of her in front of a tall, graceful Tulip Poplar tree. That tree had been planted by Thomas Jefferson himself—documented in his own handwriting in 1807.
It stood at the corner of his home in Charlottesville, Virginia, witnessing centuries of change. The tree eventually succumbed to age and decay and was removed in 2007. But before it disappeared completely, someone salvaged pieces of its wood—and somehow, one of those pieces made its way into my hands.
That photo of my wife in front of Jefferson’s tree hangs in my workshop now. It’s not framed, just pinned to the wall—weathered and curled, but powerful. I look at it before I start any new pen. But this time, I wasn’t just drawing inspiration. I was building directly from memory.
Holding a Piece of History
This pen was crafted from that very Tulip Poplar—wood touched by Jefferson’s own hands, planted with intention more than two centuries ago. The grain is gentle, but full of character, a kind of quiet elegance that doesn’t shout for attention. It just invites you to look closer.
The components of the pen were carefully chosen to match the significance of the wood: Rhodium-plated hardware, detailed hand-cast elements in antique brass, and a finely tuned Schmidt ink system for writing that feels effortless. But those are just specs. What mattered most was how it felt in the hand—solid, graceful, rooted. Like a whisper from the past.
Every curve was carved slowly. I didn’t rush this one. In fact, I turned off the lathe more often than I usually do, just to sit with it. There’s something sacred about knowing your tools are shaping a piece of living history.
Meant to Be Used
When people see one of these pens in person, there’s often a pause. A respectful kind of hesitation. I hear things like, “It’s too beautiful to use,” or “I’d be afraid to carry this around.”
I understand that reaction—I’ve had it myself. But here’s the truth: Beauty isn’t something to put on a shelf and admire from a distance. Beauty wants to be used. It wants to be carried in a pocket, uncapped in a moment of thought, used to write a letter, sign a dream, or start something new.
Objects like this aren’t fragile. They’re resilient. And every time you pick it up, you carry not just a tool—but a story—with you.
Presence in the Palm of Your Hand
Brené Brown once wrote, “Creativity is the way I share my soul with the world.”
That line sits with me often, especially when I’m turning pens like this. There’s a vulnerability in working with such meaningful materials—knowing they can’t be replaced, knowing that you only get one chance to get it right. But there’s also joy. Joy in honoring the tree, the history, and the people who will carry it forward.
That photo of my wife is more than just a memory. It’s a marker of time, of growth, of the quiet intersections between personal and public history. Turning that Tulip Poplar into a pen was like bringing that moment full circle. And for the collectors who now hold one of those few finished pieces, I hope it carries the same sense of reverence.
Legacy in Progress
The original Tulip Poplar is gone now. The person who salvaged and shared the wood has since passed. What’s left is limited. I was able to make seven pens from the pieces I received, each one gone now to a history lover, a collector, or someone who simply felt the pull of the past.
But I didn’t throw away a single shaving.
Every curl of wood, every flake of sawdust from those turning sessions was gathered and saved. I’ve begun working on a new idea: a series of resin pens embedded with those shavings—small time capsules from Jefferson’s tree, suspended in light. Different. Modern. But still full of story.
If you’d like to hear when those become available, I invite you to join the mailing list or follow along on social media. That’s where I share the quiet beginnings—the late-night sketches, the first test pieces, the unexpected accidents that sometimes lead to the most meaningful work.
And if you’ve read this far, I’ll leave you with a question:
What’s the last object you held that made you pause—not because it was expensive or rare—but because it reminded you that story can live in even the smallest things?