The Cedar & Song Journal

Volume One

Coming Home

Late June

There are moments in life when something long forgotten quietly finds its way back to you.

For me, it happened beneath a cedar tree.

This spring, I found myself spending more time beneath the large California cedar in our front yard. Planted in the late 1960s, it has stood watch over this home for generations. After a winter of storms, I was gathering fallen branches beneath its wide canopy, enjoying the quiet company of the birds overhead.

Without warning, my thoughts wandered back to my earliest years.

Back to my grandparents' farm outside Joplin, Missouri.

For several of my childhood years, it wasn't simply a place I visited—it was home.

The farm moved to the rhythm of the seasons. Cattle grazed quietly beyond the pasture fence, birds filled the morning air, and the wide back porch my grandfather built became the heart of the place. Family gathered there. Neighbors stopped by without invitation. Stories were shared over glasses of iced tea, and no one seemed to be in much of a hurry.

My grandfather, Lester Testerman, had a gift for making people feel welcome. To the community, he was many things—a cattleman, a decorated World War II veteran, a craftsman, and the kind of neighbor people knew they could count on.

To me...

He was Grandpa.

He was my best friend.

If he was repairing a fence, I wanted to hand him the tools. If he wandered into the workshop, I wasn't far behind. I loved watching rough pieces of lumber become something useful beneath his hands. Birdhouses. Gates. Shelves. Little by little, I began to understand that the satisfaction wasn't found only in finishing the project—it was found in making it.

Looking back now, I don't think Grandpa ever set out to teach me woodworking.

He was teaching me something far more lasting.

He was teaching me patience.

Just beyond the backyard fence, overlooking the pasture, stood a birdhouse he had built.

I can still picture it.

Painted white.

Three nesting compartments across the front.

Little columns that made it seem almost grand to a little boy.

I remember watching him build it, never imagining that one day it would become one of the few pieces of the farm I could still hold in my hands.

As the years passed, life carried me in directions I never expected. The farm became a place I visited only in memory.

Or so I thought.

Standing beneath that cedar tree, one thought came rushing back.

The birdhouse.

It had made every move with me.

Somewhere, packed away in a box, was a small piece of my childhood waiting to be found.

I went looking for it.

When I finally opened the box and lifted it into the light, I couldn't help but smile.

I may have even laughed a little.

Time had certainly left its mark. The paint had weathered. A determined woodpecker had done a number on the bottom, and years of nesting told the story of a house that had done exactly what it had been built to do.

It wasn't perfect anymore.

But somehow...

it was exactly as I remembered it.

As I gently cleaned it and brushed away years of dust, I wasn't thinking about repairing an old birdhouse.

I was remembering the man who built it.

He probably thought he was building a home for birds.

He never knew he was building a memory for his grandson.

That afternoon, I carried the birdhouse into the workshop, where it now has a place of honor.

Not because it's the finest piece of woodworking I've ever seen.

But because it reminds me why I wanted to build again.

Cedar & Song Studio didn't begin with a business plan.

It began with a grandfather who built things with care.

A little boy who wanted nothing more than to be beside him.

And a quiet spring afternoon beneath a cedar tree, when an old birdhouse found its way back into my hands and gently reminded me where I came from.

If you've found your way here, whether through one of our handcrafted pieces, a vintage treasure, a quiet walk through our Journal, or one of our Slow TV videos, welcome.

We're grateful you've joined us.

Welcome, Friend of the Studio.

—

Until our paths cross again,

May you find a quiet moment, notice something beautiful, and carry a little of the outdoors home with you.

— The Journal Keeper