I have always believed that the things we make with our own two hands carry a piece of our soul. For most of my life, I worked in construction, building houses that belonged to other people.

But when I retired, I found my true sanctuary in the small, dusty workshop tucked behind my garage.

That shop smells of pine shavings, old coffee, and machine oil, and it is the place where I have spent the last ten years creating a legacy for the people I love most in this world. It started with Michael. When my oldest son called to tell me I was going to be a grandfather for the first time, a profound sense of urgency washed over me.

I wanted this child to have something permanent. Toys break, clothes are outgrown, and money is spent, but a sturdy piece of furniture can last generations. I went to the lumber yard, picked out the finest cuts of white oak I could afford, and spent three months building a child-sized rocking chair.

When Michael was born, I gave it to him. Over the years, the tradition simply became an unspoken rule in our family. Whenever a new baby was announced, my kids knew exactly where I would be for the next few months. Seven grandchildren followed. Seven beautiful, loud, chaotic, and perfect babies.

I developed a system that I stuck to with stubborn pride. I always used oak for the boys, admiring the deep, unyielding grain of the wood. For the girls, I used cherry wood, which starts out light but deepens into a rich, stunning red as it ages and catches the sunlight in their nurseries.

I sanded every edge until it felt like glass. I never used nails, only wooden dowels and strong glue, ensuring the chairs could withstand the roughhousing of toddlers.

But what my children don’t know—what no one in the family knows—is that the chairs are actually time capsules.

On the bottom of each seat, underneath the spindles where no one ever thinks to look, I leave a secret. When a chair is completely finished, right before I apply the final coat of protective lacquer, I take out my woodburning pen. I plug it in, wait for the metal tip to glow a faint orange in the dim light of my shop, and I write a message to the child.

I write these messages knowing they won’t be read for years. The child won’t see it until they are older, perhaps when they are helping me move it, or when they outgrow it and carelessly tip it over in the playroom. I like the idea of my grandchildren discovering these notes long after they are toddlers, a sudden realization that their grandfather was paying close attention to them from the very beginning.