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Matt Gentry | The Roanoke Times

Harless Wood with his first basket, made in 1991 of white oak strips that he cut from his land.

"The worst thing you can do in life is nothing," spoke Harless Wood, a Meadows of Dan basket maker.

He had paused from sliding his knife along a strip of oak to tell us this, then he started back into the whittling, adding to the pile of shavings all around our feet.

We sat in Mr. and Mrs. Wood's basement, not the typical place to entertain guests, but we were here to learn, to work, to see how he made baskets. The woodstove heated the small, cinderblock room so that we sweated even though we could hear the bitter December wind outside.

In 1980 when Mr. Wood retired from working for the Blue Ridge Parkway, he realized he needed to do something to stay healthy and active. He remembered his mother making white oak baskets, how he always admired her ability to take a tree and turn it into something so delicate yet sturdy, a vessel to transport potatoes from the garden or jars of jam from the root cellar. So he started "messing around" with trees and knives and baskets. Mr. Wood has been not "doing nothing" for 27 years now. At 90 years old, he knows what he's talking about.

My wife, Sarah, has made baskets for several years as well but always out of store-bought reed. Last summer, she took a weeklong class at the John Campbell Folk School in North Carolina. There she learned how to identify the best white oak trees, split and quarter the trunk into smaller and smaller chunks and then use a shaving horse, several knives and a lot of hand strength to keep splitting each piece down to long thin strips. Sarah came home at the end of that week with a sturdy market basket, each weaver and rib smooth and white, the handle notched and arched like a small rainbow, the whole basket as strong as a mountain.

Over the next few months, we started trying to make more of these wonders at home. Our first tree looked suitable, but when we began splitting it apart, we found splintery shreds instead of long strands. That log became firewood. Our second log proved much better, the wedges prying apart the bole into workable quarters. Then we heard about Mr. Wood through a friend and took him half of this tree, what we hadn't "worked up" yet.

When we first arrived at the Woods's home, we sat in the living room, sharing histories. Mrs. Wood told us of their two sons and their families, her curly white hair framing blue eyes and a wide smile. Mr. Wood, a tall, square-shouldered man, sat on the edge of his chair, telling us about the small baskets we admired on a bookshelf, their corners sharp and quarter-inch strips perfect. We sensed, though, his impatience. After about 10 minutes of visiting, he said, "Well, it takes a long time to make a basket, so if you want to learn, we better get started." Clearly, he was eager to teach.

Matt Gentry | The Roanoke Times

Miniature baskets held by Harless Wood, a retired 90-year-old basket maker in Meadows of Dan. He uses pins to anchor the miniature strips while making these tiny baskets.

In the backyard, he pulled out antique wedges and a maul. I checked with Mr. Wood to make sure I was splitting each section in the right place, and then swung the maul. The wood pulled apart, the ripping sound getting swept away by the fierce wind. We didn't stay outside for long.

Into the basement and by the stove, we sat and watched as Mr. Wood pounded a froe into one end, then twisted the hand tool to pry apart smaller and smaller sections. After the froe, he used several different knives, shaping each narrow piece of oak, and then splitting it in half, again and again. Once an end had an inch or so split, his fingers and hands took over, prying apart, bending back the two sides, trying to keep them even. All of this work resulted in several strips, roughly four or five feet long, an inch wide, and an eighth of an inch thick.

On the second chunk of wood, Sarah and I joined in, knowing the best way to learn is by doing. I sat opposite Mr. Wood, both of us on chairs that he had re-caned with white oak. I tried to hold the knife like he did, but he quickly saw I hadn't done this before. The rest of the afternoon we had fun bantering back and forth about my lack of whittling prowess.

"You never did whittle before, did you?" "No, not until about an hour ago."

Luckily, I didn't cut myself.

Mrs. Wood checked on us occasionally, stopping her letter-writing to walk down the stairs with cookies and candy. For awhile, she sat beside Sarah in a faded love seat, and for a short time, she helped split some of the long strips. When we asked, she said, "Oh no, I don't make baskets." But then Mr. Wood told of how she helped him with a demonstration at a local elementary school, and surprised him with how much she knew.

We sat for several hours in this small warm room, the good strips piling on one side, the bark and splintery debris everywhere else. When we had finished the last of the wood, we walked out to find the sun setting, the cold dusk whipping away our body warmth.

But driving home, I realized we had witnessed a man full of inner warmth for two things, white oak baskets and Blanche Wood, his wife of 57 years, whose name ironically also meant white tree.

Jim Minick lives on a farm in Wythe County and teaches at Radford University. His book of essays, "Finding a Clear Path," was published by West Virginia University Press.