Book Review: Guide to Woodworking with Kids, by Doug Stowe

This image copied directly from Doug's website, but without his express permission.

"Our own life is the instrument with which we experiment with the truth."
-Thich Nhat Hanh

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I love reading about what Doug Stowe is up to. As a graduate of North Bennet, there's a common thread of Educational Sloyd that ties together my experiences and his, but in vastly different ways. I wasn't really exposed to it until I was in my late 20's, and I will always remember walking around the school with my jaw on the floor for the better part of an hour, during the tour. I wasn't even sure people still knew how to do those things, let alone that there would be a school, let alone that it would be so close to me, and that I'd never even heard about it until then. North Bennet will always, always, always, have a warm place in my heart. And the roots of what they taught, and how they taught, were rooted in Educational Sloyd, which had actually been taught there by Gustaf Larsson to the teachers who would be bringing the experience to children. Reading his source material feels like coming home, in some ways, to a home I wish I'd grown up in... and maybe, would like to provide for my children.

But in my experience, there's a difference between the theory of what I thought I wanted to do for my children one day, and what I'm actually doing. In the trenches of temper tantrums and fights over screen time, snack food, and all of the other little battles against low blood sugar, neurological development, growing pains, younger/ older brother power plays... Well, I'm human. And I miss the mark sometimes. And that's when I have to step back and re-assess.

There's a great quote that I read once upon a time, that in an age of information overload, plans don't work, and maps don't work. What you need is a compass, a trajectory, and a way to measure the key values. (Are you headed where you want to be headed, how far do you have to go, how fast are you moving, and so on.) It doesn't matter if you're in over your head, as long as you can swim. And, keep swimming. (cue the inevitable Pixar earworm) And so, when I do step back, I have to consult some of my personal compasses... of which my wife is one. (Having the right partner is key.) But there are others.

And that leads me to this marvelous book, because it's reminded me of a few things. One of those things is, in no uncertain terms, don't project your own self-deluded nonsense onto your children. Another thing I needed to remember, is just how much I didn't know, and just where is the basic base-line?

As I've been getting things set up in my basement, I've been trying to think of ways to integrate the boys, ages 7 and (almost) 5. I've been reading about stick furniture and tapered tenons, and thinking to myself how easy it would be for them to understand. And they've helped, a little, with one small project (a bench) so far.

And in so doing, I missed the point completely. The children ARE the project: The wooden MacGuffin is just a thing. Sure, I'm happy to help them figure out what they can do with their hands. And in good time, I'm sure they'll be more interested in specific projects. But of all of the various tips and tricks and suggestion that Doug has, (and there are many) the big one is this: The point of woodworking with your kids, is not to build objects. It's to help to help the children grow, help them learn, and to stay out of their way while they figure out what they have to figure out. And maybe that's the second half of the point: The children are the project, but (just like all of their really cool LEGO sets) it's not my project.  Not really. They need me to provide boundaries, and give them a basic understanding of the structure they'll be working with, but they rest of it is up to them, their nature, and their inclinations. If I do it right, I'm just a spectator/ assistant.

Ultimately, the part of my experience at North Bennet, that I want to provide for my kids, is the learning part. And it's all too easy for me to forget the vast difference between learning, and being taught. And just because I see something cool in the bones of a particular project, doesn't mean that they see it... or that they see the same cool thing. Maybe that ball and claw foot really is the leg of Optimus Prime's long-lost Cybertronian nemesis, after all. Who am I to say otherwise?

That's actually one of the great things about the pictures in his book, of the children's projects. They remind me of what it was like as a kid, building similar things, that probably looked even worse, and how the real significance at that age isn't the finished project... it's that the object itself is simply a placeholder for the imagination, while it projects all of the epic adventures and zany experiments with reality that a child's head can produce. Ninjas, dinosaurs, misguided refrigerator monsters, and a family of broken crayons who only want for a hamburger... And that process is much more important than some poor parent's need to take the kid's newly finished project into the basement to be sanded, and refinished, and made into something for the parent's imagination to project greatness upon. Who cares if it looks like something that was made by a child? It was. And that is absolutely ok. 

I was fifteen before I had my first experience with jealousy over someone else's achievements: Scott McClary made a really cool coffee table in 9th grade. I really wanted to be that guy, who could build things. But my 7 year old isn't even halfway there right now. There is nothing in his world that demands that I help him to avoid my teenage experience. (And, for that matter, there's nothing I can do with him now that would ever help me feel better about my own childhood experience.)

So, this is a woodworking book, sort of. It's a teaching book, sort of. Maybe once you blow off some of the sawdust, it's a mystical zen treatise on child rearing, sort of. (Hence the quote with which I began this post.) Or maybe it's a map to the Lonely Mountain Erebor, where we can all battle our own hidden dragons, in search of treasure.

Or, maybe it's a compass.

Am I helping them learn? Or am I trying to teach? What was it about learning fine craftsmanship, that I want to help them find for themselves, if they need it? Do they even care, yet? Am I the person in their life who is best positioned to help them with that? Is this really my shop right now, or theirs?

In my experience, when I find myself neck-deep in questions, I'm probably in the right place.

(I'm still proud to see them sitting on the bench they helped make.)

Thanks, Doug.