THERE IS THE WOOD, and there is the bike, and both challenge Shane Kline. Both provide relief, give him focus, require concentration. Both are solitary, in their way—pursuits into which he can disappear. In both, an inanimate object feels animate, and there’s a relationship—he pushes the bike and the road, and they push back. The wood? “I let it tell me what it wants to become,” he says. Both have their season.
Like this morning: Dust from a 1,000-pound planer catches the yellow Pennsylvania light inside the Family Tree Traditions woodshop. The smell of stain, the last coat on a stack of butcher blocks, dampens the air. Talk radio stumbles through machines that whir, wail, and hiccup. Ray Kline, 59, Shane’s dad, is powering everything up for the day.
Shane?…
