To unite, as timbers, by means of tenons or dowels in the edges or faces.
I do not own a desk. I type these words sitting at a table which I sometimes refer to as a desk, but which is in fact a large table made of wood. It was sold to me by a friend who also helped me assemble it. He called it a "work table", a name which could mean a lot of things. I work at this table with the throwaway plastic tools of the digital crafstman but by appearance this table seems better suited to a basement or garage filled with chain saws and sandpaper.
The table is flimsy. I warn visitors not to pound or lean heavily on this table. Despite its appearance of strength I suspect that these 2 hands (and those 2 hands of he who sold it to me) assembled this platform in such haste as to make it a perilous platter.
As with most of my affairs I would probably need to build this thing at least twice before I got it right.
The expression "built with my own two hands" has always rung hollow to me. I may have first been introduced to the expression at summer camp in 1978. After a rabble-rousing series of song-singing and foot-stomping in the cafeteria the camp’s Director diplomatically delivered a speech in which he praised the enthusiasm of us campers and the counselors who so energetically sang Native American tribal songs and chants, but he suggested we be careful about how much abuse we gave to the building. "I built this cafeteria with my own two hands," he said, suggesting with self-deprecation that this should not give us any particular confidence in the integrity of the structure. "I don’t know if these walls are designed to withstand the kind of energy you men showed last night."
Indeed, it was an exceptional outburst. The walls and floor and roof of the cafeteria shook as each group of camers took its turns singing its song.
There were four groups of campers, each named for an Indian tribe, and each group had a theme song that invoked its name. The tribes were (in order of the members’ ages) Chickasaw, Cherokee, Catawba, and Tuscarora.
My favorite song was the Catawba. The words, usually accompanied by hand-clapping and foot-pounding, were:
MMM, mmm-gawa, Catawba got the power! Sing
Repeat ad lib. At the cue of the camp counselor the song ends with:
PEACE!
For some of the chants a camp counselor would lead the singing — in the style of a miltary drill sergeant who sends out the first line of a song as the members of his platoon respond with the next lines.
This question-and-answer format gave the Chickasaw chant a distinct character. A 20-something year old camp counselor would, with his deep basso voice, shout out "WE ARE CHICKASAW!" and in response a chorus of 10-year-olds with squeaky, pre-pubescent voices shouted "WE ARE CHICKASAW!" The deep-voiced leader would next say "MIIIIIGHTY MIIGHTY CHICKASAW!" and the youngsters joyfully and high-pitchedly responded with "MIIIIGHTY MIIGHTY CHICKASAW!"
