● Student Becomes the Teacher

We are born students in a classroom. For some of us, mama and papa are our first teachers. Life is the classroom. Life is the subject.

I find purpose in this ancient art of woodworking practiced since wo-man, woman, strolled through the motherland.

Memories add the meaning.

Teach a Child

My woodworking journey began when my dad and I spent many days to keep a piece of a house, an old two-story house, from falling apart. It was our family’s first house after moving away from the housing projects.

My mom’s thrift, saving nickels and dimes, and her determination got us out just before the place really got bad.

As for the house, we couldn’t afford much. And that’s what we got. At over 100 years old, it was not a stretch to say it was a piece of a house.

From the start, it seemed that almost every weekend found us fixing broken pipes, replacing rotten stair rails, patching holes in a floor, wall or ceiling, or painting.

We didn’t know anything about houses. We’d always begin by brainstorming just how we were going to tackle the job. We had to figure out what we needed, where to find it, and how to use whatever we found.

There were few choices beside the remnants of an inadequately supplied neighborhood hardware store. Mind you this was before the advent of the big box hardware stores. And still, not one opened in our community!

Every week, there was something that needed repair or upkeep.

We couldn’t afford a plumber, painter or any kind of professional handyman, so we did it ourselves. This was in the days of lead-based paint and second hand tools already abused and too dangerous to use. That’s all we had, so we used them.

It did not leave a lot of time to just be a kid

We started very early on weekend mornings, but the job took 3 times longer than it should have.

There were always snags or unexpected hang ups that we had to figure out. Something else would “go out of fix” when we were in the middle of our work. It felt like something would break if we just looked at it the wrong way!

So discouraging at times, the tasks took all the energy, resolve, and resources we had. We were doing the best we could. Before long, we knew every inch, nook and cranny of that place.

We would finish or find a stopping point late in the day so my father could get a few hours sleep before leaving for his real job on the night shift at the other side of town.

At least, I got a break and could get some sleep but the work still didn’t stop for him. I was glad to have been his helper and learned a lot.

My dad, a complex man, never discouraged me from using tools.

He grew up on a farm in the south. After the third grade, he had to leave school for good to work full-time picking cotton.

At sixteen years old, he was a husband, father, and sharecropper. Realizing the true purpose of that malevolent system, my dad migrated north.

Student Watches the Teacher

He left a shack that had no indoor plumbing or electricity. So he was teaching me and learning at the same time. We shared a natural curiosity about how things worked and figured out a lot of things together.

Our work originated out of necessity but I think he was happy to have his big daughter helping him. He reminded me, more times than I can count, to “pay attention”. And I was still in grade school!

The work was non-stop. Each season had its own work. I climbed ladders to change out storm windows and walked the roof cleaning gutters among a list of things. I mowed grass with a push mower and swept water out of our flooded basement after many heavy summer rains.

It was not until I was an adult that I found out that my father was afraid of heights and water. He never showed that he was and I never sensed it!

His example to persevere, tough it out, finish what you start, and to keep going in the face of great discouragement still guides me today.

However, as time went on, the effect of repeatedly going up against that inevitable, unbearable wave of life took it’s toll on him.

Unfortunately, that burden, also, was being passed to me. That was something else that I observed when paying attention.

There were times when I felt that I was outdistancing my dad when it came to figuring out the math or anticipating a problem. My advice was not always welcome. My feelings were hurt at times. So, I learned to stay quiet. This was not always a good thing to teach a child, especially a girl child.

Launched into the world

Grade school landed me in shop classes with the boys. All of the manual arts, including wood shop and machine shop, were taught to everybody. I realize, now, that the slojd method served as the basis for instruction; teachers filled in the rest.

I never saw them before, but I was not afraid of the table saws and other power tools that the shop teacher taught us to use. This was the beginning of more learning.

The loud noises of those old clunkers were grating but I appreciated that the steady sound of those machines meant that all hands in the shop were still on the arms that brought them.

Our shop teacher stressed safety all the time. He told us the story of a friend who lost a hand and his ability to write and sign checks because his writing hand was severed on a table saw.

He warned us to train ourselves to be ambidextrous. No doubt, this was another one of his stories to scare the wits out of us. At that time, we didn’t know if it was true or not. We heeded the advice.

Of course, I know now that most every shop student in classes all over the world heard the same tale.

Students and Teachers All Change Places

An overarching theme in my life was persevering in the face of pernicious challenges. Persisting where I was not welcome and not letting it get to me was an early life lesson.

I learned this from birth. The knowledge accompanied me on the first day of my life. Childhood left for good a long time ago.

I was not always successful, but I tried my best to adhere to values that preserved most of my dignity.

I started my freshman year at an all-boys high school which, after a long fight, admitted girls for the first time. This followed the decision to admit black students to the school after a longer, continuing fight. Still, I appreciated the opportunity and wanted to take advantage of the education offered there.

In less than a year, however, the white student population quickly and angrily disappeared.

Each day, the rest of us moved forward despite persistent obstacles meant to make us waver and be afraid. Yes, we were expected to fail in our classes and in life. But the curriculum, which included drafting and architectural drawing classes, challenged and excited us.

This, in turn, encouraged our families – my mom and dad – and all the people who saw themselves in us.

Those classes and that early training with my father helped me become a self-reliant black woman, confident that every problem has a solution.

First thoughts about hand tool working

At one time, I thought that I would have a workshop with a big european style workbench made from beech and all power tools, big and small. Fortunately, moving and travelling for jobs made me rethink those goals.

I got onto the idea of hand tool woodworking reluctantly, but I am an enthusiast now. My shop life is dedicated to hand tool working and the slojd (individual handicraft) method of learning anything.

I am fascinated by the ways humans used tools and wood to build and define this imperfect civilization we live in.

Memories, unexpectedly, are called up from deep within me when studying a piece of furniture, a house, a box, or even a carved spoon. A chair seat worn smooth or an armrest unevenly and specifically worn can do the same.

An old wood chest majestically standing in an entryway makes me wonder: did that piece sit in an antebellum house? Was it made by my ancestors who were there?

Is this a feeling of abhorrence? Will the answer call forth that familiar sorrow that knowing brings? In my soul, I feel a connection to a past that I didn’t live in but nonetheless informs me.

Over the years, I have met, taken classes with, been instructed by, and mutually supported a few fellow hand tool enthusiasts (and some hybrid woodworkers) from around the world.

I wonder – do we all feel the same about our progenitors, our roots, the creators who came before us? I believe we do. Unfortunately, certain truths about mankind’s cruelties remain unacknowledged.

Getting back to my future

I accept my ancestor’s challenge to do the best work I can while recalling and putting to use the ancient knowledge left behind for me.

It’s another house, now, another town, and another world. This time as a grown woman, I helped my father with many projects just as I did when I was a child. I shared my increased knowledge, better tools, memories, and my love, so we could teach each other and learn together.

-Shirley J ♥️

•

Welcome to my shop – Come on in!