Greetings from the Middle of Nowhere
Guest Blog from CE Student Jeffrey Korbman, New Jersey
Day 1
If you asked TripAdvisor what there is to do in Adrian, Michigan, the very first suggestion is... a tour of Ann Arbor.
In other words: go somewhere else.
Tourists don’t come to Adrian. Few people on planet Earth come to Adrian.
It’s in the middle of nowhere — an hour and a half from Detroit. The town center features a Taco Bell and a locksmith. That’s about it.
And for the 5 days, I’ve chosen you to join me on this journey.
I’m in Adrian to attend the Sam Beauford Woodworking Institute, where I’ve enrolled in a weeklong class to build a Mid-Century Chair.
The class? Seven men. My workbench partner? A guy named Osama — a Palestinian from Jerusalem. Osama and I have bonded over our bad knees.
We started today at 8:00 a.m. sharp and wrapped at 5:00 p.m.
What did we make? Chair sides. Just sides. (Let’s not rush genius.)
I’m staying at the Holiday Inn nearby, and the drive takes me through “downtown” Adrian.
Yes, there’s a Taco Bell. Yes, there’s a Walgreens.
But the highlight so far.....in the middle of nowhere?
A store called Perry’s Tuxedo Shop — with exactly two tuxedos in the window.
No words.
Day 2
Mistakes were made.
A cut in the wrong place.
A fight with the belt sander. (The belt sander won.)
And the misguided assumption that I wouldn’t hate anyone in my group—like Rich, the recently retired brain surgeon with golden hands who does everything perfectly on the first try. Everything. I hate him.
Today we graduated to the chair seat and back. I can now say with confidence that I’ve used the word “spindles” more in one day than I have in my entire life. Spinsters? Sure. Spindles? Never. Until now. And let me tell you… spindles are hard. We sit in chairs every day without giving them a second thought. But they deserve respect. Spindle Lives Matter.
We worked from 8 to 5, with an hour for lunch. It turns out chairs are expensive not because of design, but because they take forever to make. Every detail, every angle, every method is a choice—an endless rabbit hole of joinery.
And then, on the way back to the hotel, I passed this sign (see attached). I saw it for the first time yesterday and thought, “No way.” Impossible. Tonight I saw it again, didn’t trust my own eyes, drove around the block, parked, walked back to it, and took this picture.
OMG Where to begin?
Day 3 - A fine line between craftsmanship and crazy.
Comedian Steven Wright famously said, “There is a fine line between fishing... and just standing on the shore like an idiot.”
I thought about that line today when our instructor, also named Steve, began class by telling us: “Don’t chase perfection—have more fun.”
This is not a problem for me. I’m having a blast.
After another 9-hour day in the shop, the personalities around perfection are starting to show. At one point, Mondroe—the assistant instructor—told me to cut “four pieces to 12 and 11/16 inches.”
I blinked. “Eleven-sixteenths?”
“Yup,” he said, straight-faced. “Twelve and eleven-sixteenths.”
I looked at him and said, “Mondroe, what the hell is 11/16? It’s a chair. If I cut it to 5/8th, do you really think my tushy will be able to tell?”
Apparently, some tushies can. Mine’s not that fancy.
Perfection is a pervasive goal in this world. We used toothbrushes to clean glue squeeze-out. We ran our fingertips along every seam to make sure joints are perfectly flush. We chamfered the feet of chairs—by fractions of an inch—so they won’t catch on the carpet.
There is a fine line between absolutely gorgeous furniture and full-blown neurosis.
That said, I’ll let you in on a secret—and what I chose to do instead.
Most furniture has surfaces no one will ever see. The back of a bookcase against a wall. The underside of a table. For a chair, it’s the bottom slats that face the floor. Perfectionists treat every inch like it’s the crown jewel of Versailles—sanding, finishing, and fussing over the hidden spots as much as the visible ones.
Not me.
I grabbed a black Sharpie and asked everyone in my class to sign the bottom of my seat slats. And they did. Every single one. People laughed. Some signed with flair. One guy, Neal, even drew a trumpet. It was great.
Because sometimes the best part of the chair... is the part nobody sees.
Day 4 - Flow
One of the most important books I’ve ever read is Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.
Right off the bat, I think I’d be a little happier if I could pronounce the author’s name. His name makes even Googling him feel like a challenge.
Flow is a study of what brings us sustained happiness. The central idea? Happiness has nothing to do with money. Once our basic needs are met, real, lasting happiness comes from doing something we love—something that challenges our skills and demands our full attention. It can happen anywhere, doing almost anything.
We all know that feeling. “It just flows,” we say. Time disappears. Distractions melt away. We lose ourselves in the moment—and, in a way, within ourselves.
Today, for me, was flow.
I walked into the shop at 8:00 a.m. I looked up a second time and it was 4:22 p.m. What just happened?
Most of my flow came from working on the final touches of my chair. A vertical mortise here, checking for square over there, and sanding. So. Much. Sanding. But the light at the end of the tunnel was finally in sight.
Of course, it wasn’t just the woodworking. The camaraderie among this new group of guys is its own kind of gift. Our instructor Steve is a gem. We talked for a while today—he’s a disabled veteran with PTSD from multiple tours in Iraq. He’s married, has two kids, and is a master craftsman. Every time I start with, “Steve, can I ask you something?” he bellows “NO” and walks away. Love him.
If there was one tiny break in my flow, it came during our one sponsored group lunch. The featured entrée? Southern Grilled Pork Tenderloin. In a word: intoxicating. In a moment of unity, only my new Palestinian friend Osama and I passed, opting instead for our respective PB&Js.
So much for differences.
Day 5 - Go Blue
I never fully appreciated it. I think I do now.
There are a lot of Band-Aids in the world. More types, sizes, materials, and colors than I ever could’ve imagined. Even in Adrian, Michigan.
I’m sitting at Gate D 11, waiting to fly home, looking at two of them.
What a week. Thanks for coming with me.
Today, I had a chance to chat with Luke, who—along with his wife—founded the Sam Beauford Woodworking Institute. He signed my chair. I told him the signatures of my classmates and instructors are meant to serve as a reminder: I didn’t make this chair alone.
The seven of us became a little community of shared interest.
Rich the brain surgeon. Osama the engineer. Neil the trumpet player. Steve the veteran. Each of us wildly different—and yet, whenever a second pair of eyes or hands were needed, someone would jump in without hesitation. That, to me, was as beautiful as the chairs we made. Maybe more.
On the drive to the airport, past endless farms and barns, I asked myself if there was anything I really learned about woodworking. The answer? Absolutely.
Yes, there were countless techniques and tips—tricks I’ll use for years to come. The instructors’ depth of knowledge was astounding. But one lesson stood out.
Today I walked out of a workshop filled with absolutely stunning Mid-Century chairs. Each one was a work of art. But over the course of the week? Mistakes were made. A leg was snapped with an overeager hammer. A mortise was badly mis-cut. A stretcher got torn out by a router table.
And every single time, one of the instructors stepped in and said, “Let me show you how we fix that.”
Every.
Time.
The road to beauty is not linear.
And there are a lot of boo-boos along the way.
About the Author: Jeffrey Korbman has been a professional fundraiser for 35 years from New Jersey. Over the years, Jeff has developed a love for woodworking and specializes in making furniture for synagogues. Jeff's only training came from magazines and Youtube until recently attending the Mid Century Chair course at Sam Beuford Woodworking Institute. Happily married to Dana with two kids and two granddaughters, Jeff missed his goldendoodle - Archie - the most while in Adrian.