Woodworking

My father was an Industrial Arts teacher.  That's fancy for "shop teacher."  Even back in the 50s, there seemed to be some stigma about the subject matter, hence, our reference to "IA" instead of "shop." 

My father started teaching after his Army stint in the Philippines during WWII.  He did not have a college degree, but rather, an "emergency certificate."  During his tenure as a teacher, he attended night classes, gradually earning the equivalent of two years of college.  A nervous breakdown ended his aspirations toward a degree.

In the late 50s and early 60s, "shop class" was a dumping ground for all the unmanageable boys in the high school.  And that makes sense, right?  Take those angry young men and put them in a crowded room full of dangerous machinery.  My dad was 5'6", and although I was scared to death of him, I can only imagine what it was like for him to try to control 30 teenage boys with raging hormones and a pack of Camels rolled up in their white T-shirt sleeves.  But he did so for about 15 years until he just couldn't take it anymore.  His anger over the amount of money put into sports and physical education while he contended with larger and larger classes exacerbated the situation until one day, he just quit.

Well, Dad, I don't think things are much better now.  In fact, they are probably worse.

There was a brief capsule of time when middle schoolers were exposed to the "Industrial Arts," as well as "Family and Consumer Sciences" (otherwise known as "Home Ec.").  My children were a part of that educational experiment.  I still have the fleece hoodie that my son made as well as the wooden shelves that my daughters made.  Recalling how I wanted to take "Mechanical Drawing" in high school in 1967 and was told "Girls don't take that," I was thrilled that my own children were getting what I considered to be a well-rounded education.

One by one, we have seen these courses dropped from our schools' curricula.  Apparently, sewing, cooking, woodworking, and auto repair are no longer necessary skills. What?

One of my favorite family pastimes when I was little was to help "clean" my dad's machines.  The smell of sawdust can still wrench my heart.  Although today, the authorities might press charges, my father let me sweep the sawdust off his jigsaw and planer and bandsaw with a soft-bristled brush.  I still cringe when I think of all that he could have taught me if only girls were "allowed" to learn his craft.  (In retribution, I took a woodworking class at a local "adult high school" some years ago and made a medicine cabinet and a coffee table.)

But why the love in this post?  Today, I found a small shelf that one of my daughters made in her "shop" class over a dozen years ago.  I painted it to match my kitchen cabinets, and it now has a place on my counter to hold the sugar bowl and salt and pepper shakers.  I am in love with her creation and the opportunity she had to build it herself.