The Lathe That Changed the Old Delta Workshop: How a Small Metal Lathe Expanded a Wood Shop Built on History

There is a particular calm that settles over a shop built around old iron. It is not the silence of disuse, nor the noise of modern machinery, but a steady presence. Heavy castings hold their shape. Bearings hum with old-world precision. The floor, the walls, even the air seem to acknowledge the weight of decades. A workshop like that does not simply contain tools. It carries a legacy.

For years, my workshop has been defined by one theme: vintage Delta woodworking machinery from the early 1930s through the late 1950s. That era represents the height of Delta’s industrial clarity—a time when the company was designing not just tools, but the foundations of the American home shop. The machines of that period embodied a rare combination of engineering efficiency, material durability, and functional elegance. They were built to work daily, to be repaired rather than replaced, and to serve generations.

And for years, that has been my focus.

So when people step into the Old Delta Workshop today—especially in its current, constrained configuration—and notice a small Craftsman 109.20639 metal lathe occupying a corner, the question inevitably rises: Why is there a Craftsman metal lathe in a Delta woodshop?

To answer it properly, one must understand how a workshop evolves. Shops rarely change in sudden leaps. They transform slowly, influenced by space, necessity, opportunity, and—on occasion—by the tools handed down from those who came before us. This is the story of such a transformation. It is not dramatic or abrupt, but methodical, technical, and rooted in practical craft. It is the story of how a small metal lathe, a tightening shop footprint, and a renewed commitment to proper restoration expanded what the Old Delta Workshop is capable of, without changing what it fundamentally is.

A Woodshop With a Clear Identity

The first and most important clarification is simple: The Old Delta Workshop is, and remains, a woodshop.

Everything in it—its workflow, its history, its purpose—is tied to vintage Delta woodworking machines. My lineup includes some of the earliest examples of Delta’s precision engineering: a pre-serial-number 890 14-inch bandsaw, 1200 24-inch scroll saw, and a 14-inch DP220 drill press, among others. These are machines that left the factory so early in Delta’s history that serial-numbering conventions had not yet been standardized.

Restoring and maintaining these machines is not only a technical process but a historically grounded one. It demands an understanding of Delta’s evolving manufacturing methods, the metallurgy of pre-war cast iron, their spindle standards, their bearing systems, their arbor geometries, and the subtle design shifts that marked different production periods.

For years, I relied on a full-sized suburban two-car garage to house these projects—ample space for large castings, restoration benches, parts layouts, and dedicated woodworking zones. Today, however, I am temporarily operating in a space under 200 square feet. The reduction in square footage has not changed the identity of the shop, but it has sharpened it. With limited room, every tool must justify itself. Every machine must earn its footprint.

This is not a permanent reality. By next summer, the full-sized shop will return. But in the meantime, a small space has a way of emphasizing inefficiencies. It demands discipline. It reveals missing capabilities. And it shines a bright light on tools and habits that require improvement.

A Hard Look at My Hand Tools

As my restoration work became more serious and more accurate, I began to face a simple truth: I had been using the wrong hand tools for far too long. The signs were obvious in hindsight—rounded bolt heads, scarred castings, scratched machined surfaces, and marred hardware. These were not the results of poor intentions, but of improper tools. Vice-Grips, worn crescent wrenches, and bargain-bin pliers have their place in a general-purpose toolbox, but they have no place on a machine built in the 1930s.

It was not a philosophical realization; it was a technical one. Good hand tools are not about brand loyalty or aesthetics—they are about precision, geometry, metallurgy, surface contact, and predictable mechanical behavior. A poorly fitting wrench damages hardware. A thin-jawed plier slips under torque. A cheap ratchet introduces play into operations that demand controlled force.

As restoration work gradually transitioned from casual to serious, the need for proper tools grew unavoidable. I began acquiring better tools deliberately—first from Harbor Freight, only to fill immediate gaps. But then something shifted. I started noticing—and appreciating—the older American-made hand tools that had quietly accumulated in my mid-1990s Craftsman rollaway. That discovery led me directly to the Craftsman Vintage V-Series: forged in the U.S., comfortable in the hand, mechanically trustworthy, and beautifully made.

AI rendering of what two of the Craftsman Boxes I've collected will look like with my planned paint scheme.

A single wrench was enough to make the difference clear. Soon, I was seeking out V-Series wrenches, sockets, ratchets, and even machinist-grade hand tools. Before long, the tool chest was overflowing, and—naturally—the solution was obvious: acquire more toolboxes, and ensure that they, too, were vintage

This growing archive of hand tools marks a turning point in the workshop’s evolution. It reflects not nostalgia, but refinement. As the machines being restored became more historically significant and more precise, the tools required to service them needed to meet the same standard.

But better hand tools also revealed something else: I was missing a fundamental capability entirely.

The Precision Gap: A Need for Metalworking

Vintage woodworking machines from Delta’s golden era are remarkably durable, but they are not indestructible. Bearings wear. Shafts develop play. Bushings fatigue. Spacers deform. Arbors lose concentricity. The machines are robust, but they are not immune to time. And many of the replacement parts required for a correct restoration are no longer manufactured.

That means every restoration eventually encounters a moment when no amount of careful disassembly or respectful cleaning will produce the part needed. Sometimes a bushing must be replaced that is no longer available. Sometimes a pulley requires a custom arbor mandrel to cleanly mount it for machining. Sometimes a drill press depth rod is missing entirely. Sometimes a shaft demands a sleeve to restore proper tolerance.

And sometimes, the only correct solution is to fabricate the part.

Fabrication is not a shortcut. It is a continuation of historical respect. Pre-war Delta machines were built to serviceable tolerances, and restoring them properly means meeting those tolerances—not approximating them.

Eventually, every serious restorer of old machinery reaches the same unavoidable conclusion:

To restore old iron correctly, one must be able to machine parts.

Not industrial-scale machining. Not heavy turning. Not high-horsepower stock removal.But careful, controlled, precise fabrication.

Which is where this story takes a turn—one defined not by equipment catalogs or industrial supply houses, but by family.

The Lathe That Arrived as a Gift

The metal lathe that now occupies a corner of the Old Delta Workshop did not arrive because of a strategic purchase or a planned upgrade. It arrived because my father gave it to me. The machine he passed on was a Craftsman 109.20639, built by Double A Products Co. of Chicago, and sold through Sears in the late 1940s.

There is something meaningful about a tool that enters a shop this way. New machines can be purchased; old machines are inherited. But machines given by a father carry an entirely different significance. They become part of a lineage—not just of tools, but of work.

And here is the truth, stated plainly:When my father gave me this lathe, I had—and still have—not yet used a metal lathe.

Despite my expertise with Delta woodworking iron, metalworking is an entirely new discipline. I did not grow up machining. I did not learn threading on a lathe in school. I have no background in metal shop. Instead, I approached this machine the same way I approached my first vintage Delta restoration: with research, respect, and a desire to understand exactly what it is.

That is how I discovered the lineage of the Craftsman 109.

Understanding the 109: The Double A Legacy

The 109 series lathes were built not by Sears, nor by Craftsman, but by Double A Products Co., a Chicago-based engineering firm specialized in compact metalworking equipment. Double A produced lathes under several brand names:

• Dunlap, featured in the 1941 Sears Zone 1 Power Tools catalog

• Craftsman, the name under which the 109.20639 appears beginning in 1948

• Simpson’s “Supremacy”, for Canadian distribution

• And occasionally under Double A’s own branding

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The 109.20639 variant—the model in my shop—was sold during the late 1940s and into the early 1950s. It was not built as an industrial tool. It was designed for the home machinist, the hobbyist, the repair craftsman, and the small-shop user who needed capability without weight. It is a modest machine by industrial standards, but elegant in its simplicity. It embodies the mid-century philosophy that small, affordable tools could meaningfully expand what a shop was capable of.

This makes it perfectly suited for the Old Delta Workshop: not as a centerpiece, not as a production tool, but as a precision supplement.

Learning a New Discipline the Right Way

Before the lathe ever powered on, I began with one essential reference—the same reference generations of machinists before me relied upon:

The Manual of Lathe Operations and Machinists Tables.

This book is not a casual read. It is an engineering text designed to guide beginners from fundamental principles through advanced applications. It explains the physics, geometry, and technique behind:

• toolbit grinding

• facing and turning

• boring and parting

• accurate measurement

• threading using change gears

• shimming, truing, and adjusting

• feeds, speeds, and chip formation

  
  

In woodworking, a tool can often be mastered by feel. In metalworking, feel must be backed by geometry and method. The manual makes this clear. It does not romanticize the craft. Instead, it grounds it in precision.

This learning process has placed me in the unusual position of being a novice again—someone who must approach an entirely new discipline with patience and clarity rather than confidence. That is not a setback. It is an advantage. A shop grows fastest when its owner becomes a student again.

What the Lathe Makes Possible

The significance of adding a metal lathe to a wood-focused restoration shop is not symbolic—it is entirely practical. With this machine, I can now produce the components required to restore vintage Delta machinery with technical accuracy rather than approximation. The 109 enables fabrication of shafts, spacers, bushings, mandrels, sleeves, adapter threads, alignment rods, and restoration tools that would be impossible—or prohibitively expensive—to outsource.

This does not transform the shop into a machine shop.It expands the shop’s precision.

Restoring old Delta equipment is now a complete loop: disassembly, cleaning, machining, refinishing, and reassembly can all occur within the same space. The lathe affects the shop not by shifting its identity, but by increasing its capability.

Why This Lathe Belongs in a Delta Workshop

There are larger, heavier, more capable metal lathes available.Delta themselves built excellent metalworking machines capable of industrial-level work. These machines powered factories throughout the mid-20th century. But they require floor space—spaces that are presently unavailable in a temporary shop restricted to less than 200 square feet.

The Craftsman 109, by contrast, fits perfectly.Its scale aligns with the current footprint.Its precision aligns with the shop’s requirements.Its purpose aligns with restoration, not production.

It does not compete with the Delta woodworking machines.It supports them.

And that alignment—the right tool for the right purpose—is what makes the 109 at home here.

Becoming a Beginner Again

There is a particular humility in learning a new craft after years of experience in another. Woodworking and metalworking share some conceptual similarities—measurement, accuracy, material behavior—but the techniques diverge quickly. Steel does not respond like wood under a cutting edge. Chips form differently. Heat becomes a constant factor. Vibration, rigidity, and surface geometry matter in ways foreign to woodworking.

To become a beginner again is to acknowledge that mastery in one domain does not automatically transfer to another. But it also invites a renewed engagement with craft itself. It sharpens focus. It encourages patience. It reopens the space for genuine learning.

I am ready for that.Metalworking will not replace woodworking in this shop.It will complement it.

A Workshop in Transition, Not Transformation

The Old Delta Workshop stands today in a moment of transition. The space is smaller, the workflow more deliberate, the collection more refined, and the tools more capable. But its identity is unchanged.

This remains a woodshop rooted in the history of Delta’s pre- and post-war golden era. The metal lathe does not alter that. Instead, it closes the precision gap that has quietly existed for years. It completes the restoration cycle. It honors the machines by enabling repairs at the level of quality they deserve.

The lathe arrived as a gift.It stayed because it is needed.It will remain because it elevates the craft.

And soon, as the first chips curl away from the cutting tool, a new dimension of this shop’s history will begin—a dimension defined not by replacing what came before, but by strengthening it.

The Old Delta Workshop is expanding its capability—but not its identity.

It is still, and will always be, a woodshop built on history.

Now, it is simply more complete.