Journeyman's Journal

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Glen Huey was one of the greats. A master of period furniture, his work always had that unmistakable touch. Clean. Precise. Deeply respectful of the craft’s history. I never met him in person, but through his writing, videos and teaching, he made a real impact on me. He was one of my woodworking legends.

He had a way of explaining things that cut through the noise. No fluff. No ego. Just straight-up knowledge from someone who clearly loved what he did. Whether it was a dovetail joint or a full-blown highboy, you knew that if Glen was behind it, it was going to be solid and beautiful. He didn’t just build furniture. He told stories through timber, with a quiet kind of authority that didn’t need to shout.

After he left Popular Woodworking Magazine, Glen co-founded 360 Woodworking. It was his way of keeping the teaching going. The content there had the same tone. Personal, direct, and full of useful detail. You could tell he cared about sharing the craft, not just showing off. That site became a place where his voice stayed strong and clear, and I found myself returning to it over and over.

What stood out to me most about Glen was how generous he was with his time and skill. He gave so much to the community. Articles. Books. DVDs. Workshops. He helped so many of us lift our game. For people like me, working alone with hand tools, having someone like Glen on the page or on screen made the bench feel a little less quiet.

He passed away in June 2025. His death is a real loss. Not just to woodworking, but to those of us who found inspiration in his work and his way of being. He’ll be missed. I’ll still turn to his books and videos like old mates. That’s the kind of legacy he’s left. One of skill, passion and honesty. Rest easy, Glen. You gave us a lot.

This isn’t the sort of blog post you’d usually come across, but I’m sharing it with the same intent I’ve always had when I’ve passed on my experiences and knowledge. I’ll continue to do so for as long as I’m able. What I’m writing about today is a flaw that became a mistake, one that I now see clearly, and I hope maybe someone else out there sees it before it takes hold of them too.

I became a hoarder of timber. There’s no better way to put it. The timber you see stacked in the background of my workshop photos isn’t just for show or stock for upcoming builds. A lot of it has been sitting there for years, untouched, gathering dust. I told myself it was for special projects. I convinced myself that one day the perfect idea would come, and when it did, I’d have just the right board for it. But that day didn’t come. New batches came in, and instead of reaching for what I already had, I’d go out and buy more. I’d use the new stuff and leave the rest behind. It’s madness, really, but it’s a kind of madness that’s quietly common. I know I’m not the only one. There are plenty of us, some still here, some not, and if you’re reading this and it sounds familiar, maybe it’s already taken hold of you too.

There’s something about wood that makes us want to hold onto it. Maybe it’s the cost. Maybe it’s the beauty. Maybe it’s fear, fear that we’ll mess it up, waste it, or that someone will look at what we’ve made and think we blew it on something unworthy. But that’s the trap. That’s the lie we tell ourselves to justify doing nothing. What we forget is that every project we touch should be treated as something worth doing. Every cut we make is practice, progress, and part of the journey. That timber isn’t getting any better by sitting there, and neither are we as makers if we keep waiting for perfect.

Use it. That’s the message. Use it before someone else has to clear it out when you’re gone. Before it warps or splits or gets eaten. Before the love you had for it gets buried under regret. There is no special project, not in the way we think. The special part is in the making, in the time and care we put into it, not in the piece of timber sitting on the rack.

So stop waiting. Make something. Make mistakes. Use the good stuff.