Three Rulers

 

 

This is a random aside. I've seen a number of ruler reviews here and there, so this is just my 2 bits on the topic. Up top are three rulers that I own. Two have been carried extensively.  

The 6" ruler is a Starrett 604RE, that I bought from McMaster. I think it was a Schwarz recommendation, but the part that grabbed me was the end graduations. I used them a LOT in setting up router bits. Because the rest of the ruler registered for a reasonable distance from the bit, I could see pretty easily, depending on the table, if there was a dip in the table, or if the insert wasn't quite flush with the surface. So, I carried it for a long while. 

The 3 incher on the left is a Starrett 603. It's an eBay find, and has a previous owner's name engraved on the other side. It, too, has end graduations, that are on the other side. It's a lot more pocket-friendly than the 6 inch, and I think I used it a couple of times for router table gauging. (If I'd had it back when I had a full time woodshop, I'd have used it a LOT more.) I actually bought it when I was a composite assembly tech at the flying car place, and it was actually more useful in that context, for an unexpected thing: Providing scale in pictures. Whenever I had an engineer who needed feedback on how well something was coming together... or wasn't, more importantly, this was a great thing to drop into the photo to provide a sense of scale. That way they had a reliable reference, in frame, that would give them a pretty reliable sense of what was going on. FOr example, in the photo at right, it was clear that the part in the background is in a parallel plane to the end of the part in the fireground, but per the end graduations, it's offset by about 1/16". And that's actually something I can use in some of my small projects these days, too. Especially if I'm trying to copy a detail of something I see 'in the wild.'

The other 3 incher is a recent find, and is an even older model, the 403. And the differences are interesting. For one, it has both capital and lower-case letters. And while it does have end graduations, they're on both sides of the ruler... but only at the 3 inch end. Lastly, it's beveled on the edge that has 1/64" graduations. I don't really need it, but it grabbed me because of the one beveled edge. And it makes a lot of sense, actually, that it's beveled on the 1/64" scale, because it eliminates a lot of errors in measuring at that scale, that would come as the result of parallax. The ruler itself is (according to my calipers) .405" thick: about 60% of the way from 1/32 to 3/64". Fussing over the exact number is pretty silly, but the point is that, lying flat, the surface with the graduations is 2.5 times higher from the surface, than the resolution of the graduations. So, you really need to be looking from directly 90 degrees over the mark, to see what the measurement is. Any side angle, and the precision of the measurement becomes suspect.

Now, my eyes are getting old, and it would require a good magnifying glass if I had to regularly measure to 64ths. (f I have to do this, I just use my phone as a magnifying glass: Turn on camera, and zoom. Take a snapshot if you really need it to hold still.) This is also ignoring the fact that, at that scale, a set of calipers or a micrometer, or feeler gauges will be a lot easier to use. BUT... as an intellectual exercise, it's one reason I like the beveled ruler better... it gets the graduations closer to the thing being measured, so the measured dimension is more precise. 

But the last odd thing that I've noticed is that, flipped over, it's easier to use with a pointy ball point pen, like the Pilot V5 Precise model. Because the bevel in that position is an overhang, the point can actually tuck in a little bit, so the point isn't pushed out from the ruler edge, and the ink doesn't wick in underneath the ruler. So, when I found a 6" on the 'bay, I picked that one up, too. (It needs a LOT of cleaning up, though.)

Jigs, Fixtures, and Shop Made Tools

 Hello the Internet!

Once in a while I stop to check, and find that this blog is still getting regular traffic, even though it's been years since I updated regularly. It's humbling to see that people still come by, and I hope the content continues to be helpful for you all. 

In that vein, it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to corral some of the more interesting methods of work, and so, up at the top of the page is a new section, titled  'Jigs, Fixtures, and Shop Made tools.' Some of them were just cool projects, some were simple things that had a bigger impact than I'd anticipated... like the micro adjust for the table saw fence. 

I'm sure there are other things I came up with along the way that didn't get blogged about. And hopefully I'll be able to dig those out at some point and put them up. 

In the meantime, thanks again for coming by, and I hope you all are enjoying whatever work you're doing in your own shops. 

-JW 

5/12/23

Kitchen Thinking... My review of Kitchen Think, by Nancy Hiller.

I bought this book almost a year ago, but I'd consciously avoided writing this review. Quite simply, I wasn't really sure if the world really need a blond-haired white guy praising a woman for writing about woodworking. Wouldn't that seem kind of oblivious? Doesn't her work stand on its own? (YES. YES IT DOES.)  #metoodoesn'tneedmyopinon.

But then I remembered working at Rockler, and Woodcraft, and seeing Woodworking for Women magazine on the rack, with its cover headlines boasting "Easy projects you can make for your home or garden!" But it seemed like simplistic, 5th grade arts and crafts projects. At the time I thought this was perhaps the latest peak of sexist bullshit, that the best the publishing industry could come up with for women was to offer them pink frilly hammers and treat them like children.

I could only think of three articles that should be in a woman-oriented woodworking magazine, anyway: 

'Learning a trade that's dominated by men: Yes, they're sexist, gaslighting jerk-offs. Don't believe the hype. You're doing fine.'

'Working with Men in a workshop: Yes, they're sexist, gaslighting jerk-offs. Don't buy into their nonsense. Just continue running rings around them, like Ginger Rogers; backwards, in heels. Yes, it's annoying. You're doing fine.'

'Managing the Men who work in your woodshop with you: Yes, they're sexist, gaslighting jerk-offs. But if you can use their own blind spots to convince them that what you need done was their own idea, then at least they'll get the job done. Obviously you don't need me to tell you how you're doing, Please Persist. God speed on your road to mastery and excellence.' 

This last would have been written by some of the (admittedly, few) women that I'd talked to in the stores where I worked. (When I brought it up, they explained that they didn't usually come in to the store because they were tired of being talked down to by some of my coworkers. FML.)

Frankly, if a woman can (more than) hold her own in a shop environment, while simultaneously running a PsyOps mission, and still deliver a quality product to a client, maybe the publishing industry should aim a lot higher (Talking up, instead of down) when they approach that particular demographic. I digress... but remembering all of those experiences was what broke the mental logjam over whether or not I should write about this book.

Once I started thinking about Woodworking for Women magazine, and everything it wasn't, and Kitchen Think, and everything it is, I felt ashamed for keeping my mouth shut. At the end of the day, Kitchen Think has no truck with gender politics at all. It's simply the best book I've found about how to design and build a kitchen.

And, it was written by a woman.

---

Most of the 'woodworker-oriented' kitchen books that I'd seen put out by the usual suspects (Popular woodworking, Taunton Press, and other tool industry shills) are all variations on a theme: Use this jig, make drawers. WOW, see dovetails? Pinnacle of good work, they are. Use this jig to install these hinges. Here are a bunch of solutions to squeezing more storage space into awkward, and marginally effective spaces. Straight and square layouts of straight and square kitchens that, frankly, didn't look that exciting, and nuts-and-bolts descriptions of how to make plywood boxes with doors and drawers. A little attention to visual design would have gone a long way.

But from the design direction, I wasn't really sure where to turn. But one of my pet peeves with the kitchen 'design' blogs I found is that most of them also feel like they're shills, but now for the gadget and hardware producing industry. The kitchens on display are so enormous, and ostentatious, or over-run with stupid gadgetry, that I couldn't help but wonder if the bloggers involved knew anything at all about cooking. At one point I was reading a design post on houzz, and was so annoyed that I signed up to the website, specifically so I could comment on how ridiculously stupid most of it was. I felt bad later, because it was nothing more than a knee-jerk, full-throttle flame job. (I ended my diatribe by suggesting they get rid of their kitchen entirely, save their money, and order take-out. I was in rare form.) But I also got regular notices for years afterwards, that people were still clicking 'like' on my comment. So maybe I wasn't alone. (The original post, and my comment, are still up... if you're that bored, just scroll through til you find 'username: jwatriss')

Nancy does talk about tips and techniques, but it's not the dominant theme. Most of it's been exhaustively covered elsewhere. There's a strong emphasis on design, because that's as important, or more, than simply doing a good job of executing that design. If the end product flows in an uninterrupted way, the skill involved shouldn't need to stand out, because the goal is to make something the homeowner can live and cook and relax and eat in comfortably. It's not a Goddard high-boy, you don't need to masticate in awe. So there's plenty of space in the book that's spent on good ideas, and how to tie them all together. There's also plenty of time that was spent on how she found a solution to various problems... some specific to those kitchens, but some that are applicable to almost all kitchens, or to negotiating many homeowners' utter insistence on maximizing every possible cubic inch of storage space, even if they won't actually use those inches, and couldn't easily get to them anyway.

Most of the book falls under one of two categories: Design, but problem-solve, because some spaces are problematic. (More than half of the book) And Build, but problem-solve, because some spaces are problematic. (And who honestly knows what you'll find when the demo work is done anyway.) I get the biggest kick out of the problem solving part, personally. Just reading someone else's process around that really spins the gears for me, because this is the land where there are no jigs or pre-determined solutions.

And sandwiched between those two big themes, is details, details, details. Painted and/or illuminated cabinet interiors, floor pattern layouts, using color to tie a room together, hardware tips and tricks, half a dozen different spice racks, here's how to disguise a really uneven ceiling, and on and on and on.

There was no 'typical' kind of kitchen in this book. One example was mostly black and white, and designed to fit the original vintage style. Another looks vaguely like it was inspired by a diner, with a riot of  sculptural details and color. She also includes gushes over (justifiably) the kitchens of Johnny Grey, and Wharton Esherick, to provide some more inspiration. 

If there was anything that really came through as a possible Nancy Hiller trademark, it's her ability to track the details, so that they work. From big strategic things like laying a design out in a way that flows, to the finer points of execution, like continuous veneer grain around a prominent cabinet door, there are no obvious loose threads. Out in the day to day world, I've seen so many cabinets that almost fit, or almost line up, or almost took a sloping floor or ceiling into account, solutions that were shoe-horned in, but created other problems, potentially good ideas that didn't pan out... And none of that is on display here. Hiller clearly has an eye for what will work, and how to plan accordingly, but at a higher resolution than most.

She's a thinker, clearly. (In case you didn't get that, just from reading the title of the book.) 

Actually, there's one other thing I should add as a potential common theme in the kitchens that she's displayed here: They look like good kitchens. I'm not talking about glossy design mag flash, because they don't look like monuments to consumerism. I mean that they look like people live and feel at home there: They simply look like rooms for people to come in, hang out, make some food, and talk. Each has very individual character, none of the layouts look remotely similar, some are modern, some are vintage, but they all look comfortable, workable, and... like home. I don't have a good way to put a finger on what makes that happen. Clearly Nancy Hiller does. 

---

I'm the primary cook at my house, and I love seeing other people's kitchens to experience how they work. (Or, more usefully, how they don't.)  Given that, the only thing I would have liked to see is a floor plan for a few of these kitchens. Work flow fascinates me, and it's pretty clear that she had it in mind. It would help me 'see' these kitchens better if I knew where everything was, in relation to everything else. Then I could close my eyes and 'walk' around in them, and try to imagine how she approached it.

As my kids grow older, I'm also trying to find new ways to set things up so that the work still flows well with more than one person. So I was (am) idly contemplating a kitchen overhaul. With that in mind, I ordered this book a year ago.

I haven't been able to put it away. It's just too good. I see something new every time I look. And I can't recommend it highly enough.

On Curves... and current projects

My wife recently called me out on being a nerd. No, it wasn't the first time she's leveled such accusations. I was reading a victorian-era book on mathematical instruments at the time, because I wanted to read about trigonometry from people who had a more intimate familiarity with how it worked. (I learned to push a button on a calculator. It works, but Mr. Thoren, my trig teacher in high school, didn't ever really get around to explaining why. His ability to teach a class, or lack thereof, was perhaps the only thing my father and I agreed on during my high school years.) 

The backstory is that I need to brush up on my trig, so I can take a running start at Calculus. My current intent is to use those trig exercises as an excuse to get back into drafting and design. So, it'll be a few months of using lots of paper and spending time with these books:

-A Treatise on Mathematical Instruments, by J.F. Heather, 13th ed. I think the original was written in 1853.
-Industrial Science Drawing, by S. Edward Warren, 2nd ed, (I think) from 1889. Parts I, II, and maybe III.
-Essentials of Plane Trigonometry, by Rosenbach, Whitman, and Moskovitz, original copyright, 1937
-And, if I'm feeling froggy enough, I might add in some of Walker and Tolpin's book, By Hand and Eye. More likely, I'll use that as a distraction during vacation, after Calculus, and keep the drafting thing going.

I enjoy reading books from the late 1800s, when it comes to technical things. Among other reasons, that pile of books I just listed, combined, weigh less than the average 21st century math textbook. They're also more concise, and they make an effort to be readable.

Another reason I'm taking this route: I've found that drafting things by hand makes me think harder about what's actually getting laid onto the paper, and why it works, or doesn't. Some of that is because my brain, to steal a quote from Doug Stowe, is in my hands. Some of it is because, unlike working in CAD, the hand-drawn page does NOT automatically propagate, and I can't put a detail down on paper very well if I can't see it in my own mind first. Usually both images co-evolve, because I use the paper drawing to help hold the framework for my head, while I focus on the particulars... I think. It's a weird back and forth.

---

...And so it is that I found myself skimming through a section on free-hand geometrical drawing, from part I of Industrial Science Drawing. I got poked in the eye by the following quote:

"Work becomes costly as soon as straight outlines are abandoned, and especially as carved work begins to be employed, that its consequent difficulty of attainment makes it symbolical of the grace and beauty that can only be had under the best conditions, or, as the result of man's best aspirations; while the plain lines of ordinary work represent, by comparison, humbler human industries. Hence a bit of choice carving to crown, or tip, or face a piece of otherwise plain work, happily symbolizes the cheerful co-operation of happiness and honest industry, the meeting of truth and beauty."

Nineteenthth century predilection for male accomplishment aside, the quote stood out in part because it's basically the reason most people I've met as woodworkers, got into woodworking. They just want something that's a little bit nicer than what's typically on offer. It may also have something to do with why so many industrially executed embellishments fail so miserably to look nice: Something that skilled artisans used to do, to show skill and pride, is now done by machine, so the manufacturer can pretend to. It also reminded me of David Savage's telling of the story of the infamous 863, and the personal pride in making things that the 'daft old 863' had in spades. See his book, The Intelligent Hand for more.

Lastly, my mind read the quote, in part, as metaphor. Sometimes it's hard to take a roundabout way to get somewhere, like I'm trying to do with engineering. Like any other endeavor, really, as soon as the straight and well-worn path is abandoned, and the traveler tries to do something a little more meaningful along the way, it's just a little bit harder... and more precious.

Some basic trig, from Mathematical Instruments

Roubo on Furniture

The other day I posted this tease picture, under the headline "Satisfied would be a gross understatement."

After thinking about it, I felt weird and self-conscious about my approach to the post from a few different directions. And so I pulled it down.

And then the next day, I noticed that someone had left the following comment:

"I love those books, and can't believe we actually got to publish them. Plus, I use them all the time, so it's a joy to page through them."

For those who don't know, this is a shot of the spines of two expensive, limited edition books, in a very large, long-abandoned format. (12-1/4" x 17-1/4") The first, I bought years ago, when it was still available. The other, arrived this week. They're English translations of two (out of five) volumes on woodworking that were written by André Jacob Roubo. They were translated, and the content clarified, by a multi-disciplinary team that are each authorities in their own right, intending that the book should be not only authoritative, but readable and use-able to an English-literate audience. My understanding is that producing each of these books was a long, arduous, and devoted labor of love, that spanned an ocean, and many years. It also resulted in the production of two, separate, Award  Winning volumes. There are smaller, 'normal sized' editions of these books that are, and will continue to be available from Lost Art Press. But these are the big, fancy, brag-worthy ones. And I'm pretty sure that the comment was left by Chris Schwarz, one of the owners and stewards of this particular imprint.

And so, after noticing the comment, I felt like a dope for pulling the post. But here's the rest of the story. 

I had already planned to road-trip down to Lost Art Press this month, specifically to buy this book. This was back when they had planned to open the doors to the public, as they do every month. But fate, and the pandemic, had other ideas. As I said the other day, I can't think of another way to support the lunatic ideas that are coming out of Lost Art Press, than to continue to buy their product. So, since I had the money earmarked for this particular book already, and because I was knocked so far sideways by what he's got planned for the forthcoming Anarchist's Workbench book, I knee-jerk ordered this thing in response. ("Books for free, my eye! Take that, you Anarchist! HA!")

I don't like doing reviews of things until I'm familiar with them. And it's Roubo. If I need to explain that to you, as the saying goes, you wouldn't get it anyway. For me to offer to pass judgment on Roubo would be the height of vanity.

That said, I can at least say something about the physical object that LAP has produced. Yes, it’s award-winning, and I can see why. But aside from that, there’s good reason to go with the large format: The plates and illustrations in Roubo are large, and detailed. And you get a much better look at large, detailed illustrations when they’re printed in a large, detailed format. And the resolution on the page is incredible, so those images are even more crisp. I can't decide if these books are too nice to use in the shop, or if they deserve to be on the bench as regularly as possible. Probably a false dichotomy: I do respect my tools, and I do use them on the bench. And the pages in these editions are printed on very heavy stock. So they’re going, in theory, to last for a good, long time. That, on top of a sewn binding, heavy, durable covers, and a slip case that actually slips off. (I’ve owned fine copies of other books, where the slip cases were very, very tight, and so some man-handling was required to extricate their contents..)

I can also say I was caught off-guard by the packaging of this latter book when it was delivered. They invested in some custom cardboard crating to provide ample crumple zones around the edges of the box, and did a noteworthy job protecting the volume. It's one of those little things that conveys just how seriously they take their product, and their customers. So, job well done. And thanks, for that.

Totally worth every penny.

Where I am now

One of the things I miss about my shop in Lawrence is the pillars. They gave some pretty ideal spots to take shots from. Recently, given all the downtime, I was feeling nostalgic, and went looking back through the old posts that I'd put up, and it was fun to see the shop in various states of construction, re-arrangement, or mid-project. So, I thought I'd try that again here. Seventeen years ago I got started in a basement, and moved through a few iterations of 'real' shops before shutting down in 2014. I'm back in the basement again. (Different basement, though.)

This is a shot taken from one of the lally columns, back by the bulkhead door, next to the rubber exercise mat I set up for working out. Yes, that's an old-school tool chest with sliding tills. No, I didn't build it. Yes, it's cool. No, I didn't need to read a book on it to understand that at the time.

Incidentally, the thing on top is something called an opaque projector, that was marketed under the brand name projecta-scope. I remembered my mom having one back in the 70's, and thought it would be perfect to keep the kids occupied while we were stuck at home. Essentially, you drop it on top of an image. (Book, trading card, or, in our case, Pokémon card) A light bulb illuminates the image, which then bounces off of a mirror, and is projected onto the wall. No circuitry, nothing much more than a light bulb in a box with a lens on the side. Yes, the room needs to be very dark. No, it's not very bright, but it works. It's very old-school, decidedly low-fi, and cost me maybe $30 on ebay. Worth it. The 4 year old gets to work on his own Pokémon drawings to color, instead of having me do it, and it's been remarkable watching his hand-eye coordination develop as a result. Doug Stowe would probably be proud of me for following my son's lead, and letting his interests dictate the project. I'm just glad it's had as much mileage as it's had, already.

Shot from the bulkhead door. You can see the shelves I put up to provide storage, and some pegboard. To the left, you can see the end of the bench. Yes, there's a shave horse on the bench. It's up there because I finally realized why I couldn't quite get it to work well: It's too tall. In practice, if you're astride your shave horse, and your feet are on the floor, your knees should be above the thing. In this case, my knees do not come up that high. So I need to take 6 inches or so off of the legs to turn this clydesdale of a shave horse into more of a carnival pony. Maybe more, we'll see. So, it's up on the bench to have the legs laid out for trimming. And in the background, you'll see my bandsaw.

The bandsaw is a Laguna LT18 HD. Italian made, circa 2007. Incidentally, that was the year I graduated North Bennet. Of all of the stuff I sold from my old shop, I missed having a band saw the most. I thought about settling for a 14" saw, but over the 7 years that I owned a 14 and an 18, and ran them side by side, I noticed that the 14" broke blades a lot more frequently. Not often, but more often than the 18. I have a lot of crazy ideas for things I'd like to do someday with this saw. It's almost 7 feet tall, has a 4.5hp Baldor motor, and even with my ambitions, it's likely to be more band saw than I'll ever need. It's expected to be the heart of my shop, instead of the table saw that everyone else has.

I've done the cabinet saw thing, and there will likely be times when I'll miss having one. I might buy a benchtop table saw for fine cutting of joinery and banding and little toys and trinkets. But, knowing what I know now, I think I'll be just fine without a big table saw for a while. Behind the bandsaw is my Festool MFT, which handles panel work, and has been a workable substitute for a chop saw station, too.

Around the corner, behind the saw, is a mess of stuff that still needs to be organized and given real homes.  In the foreground is a shop cart that dates back to my days up in Lawrence, behind that is the MFT, and a rolling station with a benchtop drill press on top. In the garage I have a lathe that will get set up out there. Beyond that, the only thing I lack right now is a planer. Maybe. I have thoughts on that, but it's not holding anything up at the moment.

Unlike previous shop iterations, this shop is planned to be a multi-function space. There's a wall-hung monitor at the right end of the bench, since that's where my laptop is. I've been studying calculus recently, and have plans to work my way back to school for an engineering degree. I also have plans to install a 3D printer down here. (The printer itself is on backorder.) The notion chafes against my traditional woodworker experience, but quite honestly, I've seen some interesting things done with 3D printing in my flying car day job, and I want to learn more about it. And, truth be told, it's something I want my kids to have access to as they get older, if they're into it.

So... yeah. As man-cave fab labs go, this one's off to a pretty good start.

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

---

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.