I’ve hauled my grandfather’s workbench across snow-covered Appalachian mountains, down narrow stairwells and into a dirt-floored garage that should have been torn down during the Eisenhower administration. I’ve built a lot of good stuff on that bench, but now it’s time to retire the old horse. For starters, the bench is too low for the way I work. And the top is pockmarked with three different shapes and sizes of dog holes. And during the last few years I’ve become fed up with the tool tray. The only thing it seems designed to hold is enough sawdust for a family of gerbils.