Removing rust – Vinegar and saw blades

Last year I picked up a Sandvik saw from the front yard of one of my neighbours. I was just going to harvest the bolts from the handle. When I looked at it the other day I realized it was quite a good saw. It’s missing a bolt, but it has the cool scrolling serpents on the handle. Likely it was once a Sandvik No.277, 26″ (12 PPI/11 TPI) saw. But the markings on the saw are all but gone, largely because they are not etched, but screened on. There is nothing really remarkable about these saws, largely because there are so many of them out there – but the Swedish steel is good.

Here’s what the marking should look like on my saw.

Now the saw blade had a good amount of rust on it, and the conundrum with saw blades is how to remove the rust? Rust on a blade can make for a very dirty cut, and a saw that tends to stick in the kerf. Not good. It doesn’t matter the quality of the steel if the tool doesn’t actually work. Now a traditional route for removing saw blade rust is various grits of wet-and-dry sandpaper (silicon carbide), and some form of oil-based lubricant. Not exactly green though, and I don’t use stuff like WD40 unless I have to. Evapo-Rust is good, but frankly it isn’t exactly cheap, and things like saw blades need a fair amount of coverage. What is the cheapest, easiest way of doing this? Vinegar.

The saw blade showing the rust (part of it was removed already because I tried using a bag to hold the vinegar and saw)

Part of the problem with saw blades is inherently their awkward shape. The best option would be a long (plastic) tray to lay the blade in, like a boot tray perhaps? An alternative is a plastic bubble-mailer cut open and turned into a trough. Remove the handle, place in a tray, add vinegar, and leave the blade to soak for 6-8 hours. The vinegar does its job, stripping the rust, and leaving a smooth gray surface. I found that generally the rust and any other contaminants on the blade end up as coagulated sediment in the liquid. After taking the blade out of the vinegar, you can neutralize it with some baking soda.

Bubbles forming on the surface shows the rust removal is in progress.

The downside? It stripped away what remained of the markings. But there are limitations to every treatment. It also leaves a layer of black (Ferric) acetate on the blade, which is quite messy to remove, but a scrub with a scouring pad under water will wash away most of it (I would wear gloves, because the acetate is kind of messy). I have also use Barkeepers Friend to scrub the acetate off (careful to scrub it off quickly, as it too is acidic). The blade can then be finished with some 400 grit silicon carbide paper to provide some sheen, and then waxed to prevent further corrosion (I use Veritas Tool Wax). There is little point to shining saw blades to a pristine condition, as old saw blades will likely never achieve this, and frankly who cares, if they are to be used.

The end of the process, showing the rust debris lifting from the blade, and the black acetate colour of the blade.

Vinegar is cheap, biodegradable, and easy to use. It’s not instantaneous, but it does work. The vinegar I use is plain old grocery store vinegar at 5% acidity. You can also use cleaning vinegar, which is circa 12% acidity, but I don’t know if it works quicker or more aggressively. Some info on the web adds salt to the mix – salt (NaCl) + vinegar (acetic acid) produces HCl, which is a stronger acid, but frankly it isn’t warranted, and isn’t exactly safe.

The blade after cleaning, and waxing.

If you want to check out what happens to a bunch of tools left in a bucket of vinegar for 19 months, check out this post Vinegar rust removal, 19 months later.

Don’t mess with historic aesthetics

I live in a semi-detached house in Toronto that was built in 1926, so it is now 94 years old. We have lived in this house for nearly 20 of those years, but by no means could the house be considered “historic”. At least not in the same sense as historic houses in Europe. When I was a small child my grandmother lived in a house in Gstaad, Switzerland that was 300-400 years old. But still, there is a sense of “oldness” about these houses, built at a time shortly after the First World War, as “working-man’s” houses – like so many strewn across the city. There is a sense of historical context with these houses – old houses in Toronto are one of the few things that have endured. So many of the old historic, and architecturally significant buildings have disappeared over the years, replaced with “modernity”, and all the fleetingness it entails.

So when one renovates these old houses, it should be done with a sense of reverence for its past. Not necessarily for the design of the inside, because interior design invariably changes. Few would want a fully restored 1930s kitchen or bathroom I would imagine, nor a coal fired furnace. But there has to be some respect for the aesthetic appeal of the outside of the building. Too many people of course disregard this. They add extensions where they should not be, or drastically change the look of the building – things that change the character of the house, and invariably the neighbourhood. Walling in porches leads to a reduced interaction with neighbours, and on a semi-detached a sense of asymmetry. Poorly thought out extensions robs neighbours of winter sunlight.

A 1920s era “working class” stained glass window

I’m not talking materials of course – modern building materials are often great. Who wouldn’t replace asphalt tiles with more sustainable metal (wooden shingles are not anything like they were in the 1920s). Siding? Sure as long as its tasteful. Sometimes it is the small details that harken back to the historic aesthetic the house was designed with. Wooden porch railings, stained glass windows, detailed trim – modernized, but with an m, not an M. It has to do with architectural integrity. There is nothing wrong with modern houses, but they must be well designed, and in the right environment. There are also some design aspects of houses like semi-detached that have to be retained. Many people have moved towards complete open concept on the main floor, but done poorly (i.e. without the use of proper sound absorbing materials, or furnishings) this effectively turns the entire floor into an amplification chamber. Rooms are separated for a reason, unless designed as open concept. Semi-detached houses were never designed as such.

The window after stripping paint, replacing trim, painting, and adding an aluminum apron on the brick sill.

Here is a case in point. All the windows in my house are updated, except two – the two stained glass windows which sit either side of the fireplace. The frames are wooden, and the glass, well it’s just stained glass, R-value basically zero. But to enclose them in a vinyl window, or remove them would be to strip the house of part of its historic aesthetic. Instead, I decided to restore them, by stripping off the old paint, replacing rotted trim, caulking them, and adding an aluminum apron on the brick sill (old bricks can be porous, and this prevents issues of water pooling. In winter they are covered with a 2″ foam insulation cover, and in summer I will add a storm window over them. All it takes is a bit of effort to keep these things in good condition.

Pictures of English joiners workshops

Paintings are a good way of depicting life before the advent of photography, although historical artwork often takes some latitudes when it comes to real image content. There are a couple of examples of English woodworking shops from the early 19th century which are of interest.

The first, is a classic painting (oil on canvas) from 1816, is often used to illustrate an English joiners shop in the early 1800s. The painting is by George Forster, and is titled “English Joiners at work“. It depicts a joiners shop, in which objects like picture frames, and doors are being constructed. The bench is what we now call the Nicholson bench, described in Peter Nicholson’s book, Mechanical Exercises published in 1812. There are a lot of versions of this painting (mostly on pinterest), but very little historical information. What is interesting is that a search finds two artists of that name, both born in Germany, but living in periods outside when the painting was made: Georg Forster (1817-1896) later immigrated to America, and Georg Forster (1754-1794). Who was George Forster?

English Joiners (1816)

The bench is what we now call the Nicholson bench, described in Peter Nicholson’s book, Mechanical Exercises published in 1812. The painting contains a number of classic British woodworking tools – handsaws, wooden planes, and even a bowsaw.

The second painting is “Interior of the Carpenter’s Shop at Forty Hill, Enfield“, painted by John Hill (1780–1841), and exhibited in 1813. The workshop is likely that of John Hill himself, or that of his father, who were both carpenters. It seems as though the workshop has a nice vista, but the “window” in the background is actually a painting, likely for which a frame is being built.

Interior of the Carpenter’s Shop at Forty Hill, Enfield (before 1813)

P.S. Paintings like this are a good example of how hard it is to find information on the internet about the provenance of things, or why they were created.

Book review: Leonard Bailey and his Woodworking Planes

This is review of a book, Leonard Bailey and his Woodworking Planes: An Unrecognized Genius of the American Industrial Revolution, by Paul Van Pernis, and John G. Wells (2019).

I bought this book on a whim. It looked intriguing, and so it ended up in my Amazon cart. I didn’t know what to expect. What I found was a wealth of information on a topic that seems to have been somewhat ignored. Leonard Bailey was truly an unrecognized genius. Although his name is plastered on many a Stanley plane, his patents, and the technology which they represent were pivotal to the evolution of tools, especially metal planes.

The book portrays Bailey’s life through the timeline of his successes and failures. From the beginnings of his inventing in 1852 in Winchester MA, to his years at Stanley Rule & Level Company (1869-1874), and ending in 1884 when he sold his Victor Tool business to Stanley (although he did not stop inventing). It seems to be a work of passion for its authors. Van Pernis is an expert on Bailey, and a tool collector, and Wells had the most comprehensive collection of Patented American Metallic Planes in the US. This means that the book contains a wealth of information about Bailey’s inventions and patents, and photographs of planes which you may not find anywhere else. Below are a couple of sample pages.

The book is part technical, part story. One can skim over the more technical details related to patents and the like, and get a sense of Bailey’s life, the decisions he made, and his struggles with Stanley. Bailey was foremost an inventor, and although he tried to turn his tools into companies many times, he was never really successful. Bailey was a pivotal identity during the American industrial revolution, and some of his core designs are still in use today. It also provides an exceptional insight into some of the details of his tools, like the Victor line of planes. This is one of the few books which provides any sort of insight into Leonard Bailey, showing that he was more than just someone who worked for Stanley.

My only gripe with the book? For US$37 (C$60), I think it likely could have been printed on nicer paper.