Young teachers and flexible standards
A little update: I’ve been making some small items to sell in a new local store, ClaraLouise. Mostly natural edge shelves and cutting boards—fun, easy work that is helping build my muscle memory so that eventually my techniques get faster and more precise.
My youngest child asked me why the only design I burn onto anything I make is a tree. I replied that I haven’t learned to burn anything else. In response, I got a sad, pitying look. It was humbling. So I’m making a New Year’s resolution two months early: Next year, I’m going to learn how to reliably burn at least one other design. Bold. Decisive. That’s me in 2023.
Any big plans up your sleeves? I’d love to hear about it—leave a comment or shoot me an email.
Essay audio—I’m getting over a cold, so my voice is a little rough.
I did a three-day workshop with the children in my oldest kid’s class on how to build a box. He goes to a Montessori-inspired school, so his class is Elementary II, which includes fourth, fifth, and sixth grade.
They were learning about measurements. I’d told the teacher I had to measure every day in my work and offered to do a project with them so the kids could bring some measurements to life. We devised a box-building project—seven pieces, all glued up butt joints for the box, a simple wooden latch for the top.
I’ve heard that you learn as much from students as they do from you, and this was definitely true in my case. Here are some of the things I learned:
Every child’s grandfather is a woodworker.
One kid’s grandpa is also an electrician, but he’s not very good at it.
Kids are super good at bringing up non-related topics to keep the introduction going for a long time.
A color-coated labeling system would’ve improved my efficiency. As it turns out, the fourth graders’ boxes needed a little more fix-up love than the fifth and sixth graders’. This would’ve been easier to do if, at the end of each day, I could’ve easily found and adjusted their pieces. Instead, the fourth graders got an extensive lesson on the creative use of a block plane and sander for reducing wood. Next time I’m packing a table saw.
I also learned that my standards are questionable. Let me explain.
During the introduction to the full class I emphasized the importance of measuring carefully. I even brought in a 4-foot long board with some decent material in it that looked like it could be used to make box parts and asked the kids to tell me what they thought might be wrong with it.
Now I can’t stand presenters who ask a group of people a question and then tell you that your perfectly reasonable answer is wrong because it might be a little off the mark (yeah, I’m a tad prickly in a group setting). So I waded into the students’ answers with a big net and found ways to scoop all of their insights up into the yes category (or yes-ish). Truth be told, I was curious what they were drawn to and I loved the ideas darting out of their mouths.
Kid: “The knot in the middle?”
Me: “Yes, it’s not great, though you could cut around it.”
Kid 2: “It’s not sanded?”
Me: “You’re right that it’s not.”
Kid 3: “The way the lines on the board run across but then fold down, wouldn’t that mess up how the board holds together?”
Me: “That could be a problem aesthetically.” (Blank looks followed by my son shaking his head dolefully at me.) “It could make it ugly.”
Then I had the kids come around and read the tape measure across one side of the board and then another and we saw there was a 1/16th of an inch difference (4”on one side, 3 15/16” on the other, for detail-oriented readers). Oh, our hearts palpated at this discovery.
I explained that when I was working on this board, I hadn’t properly taken the twist out of it before running it through the table saw, so even though it looked okay visually, it was actually unfit for use. I’d made a mistake, but had managed to figure it out before putting the board to use and messing up what I was attempting to build.
This was an example, I said, of the importance of measuring more than once. Failing to do this could result in a joint that doesn’t line up properly or a wobbly construction. Measure twice, cut once. We took a moment in reverent silence for this woodworking credo.
But later, during the second day’s workshop, when I was working with small groups of kids measuring the pieces of their boxes to figure out where to line up and glue the latch onto their top pieces, I checked in with one kid to ask how it was going.
“This is terrible,” he said. “I hate this.”
He wasn’t being rude. He was clearly frustrated. I knelt down next to him.
“You want to know a secret?” Probably not the best way to start a conversation with a kid. “I get frustrated every day when I’m measuring and adding and subtracting fractions. It can be super hard and it annoys me at times.”
He looked at me. I didn’t mention either the amount or flavor of swear words I regularly use. (Have I told you this one? My dad says that when you’re working solo in the wood shop, it’s good to have an arsenal of curse words. Check.)
I went on. “There are lots of frustrating things in life, this shouldn’t be one of them. Do you want another technique instead of having to measure to find the middle of the top and the latch?”
He nodded. And I took the latch, set it on the top in approximately the middle, stood up so I could look down on it without parallax, shifted the piece a bit, and told him that he could just eyeball it and get close enough that in this instance, no one would be able to tell.
>>Hungry Woodworker Note: This is NOT how I make any of my furniture. Anything I make for you or anyone else is properly measured and centered and sweared at sufficiently to ensure precision and alignment.<<
But these kids, I don’t know what they’re bringing to school, what their day has been like so far, or any of the many other more important issues on their minds. I do remember being a kid and the dearth of adults who took my concerns and experiences seriously. I remember being so caught up in my imagination that the rest of the real world was of only trifling concern.
So instead of emphasizing rigorous standards, I instead shared the Path of Good Enough, which might not work in fine woodworking, but is essentially my approach to the rest of life. (For reference, see newsletters, all.)
What else did I learn? That these kids were natural sanders. I made little block sanders for them—small wooden blocks with 150-grit sandpaper adhered around them—and they went wild sanding their boxes. If I had a little more of a Willy Wonka nature, I’d put them in a large factory and have them singing, Oompa Loompa style, while they sanded.
Another lesson: It is hard to read a ruler or measuring tape. I spend so much time doing this, I don’t even think about it anymore. It was good to be reminded that it’s tricky for a beginner.
The reason it’s good to be reminded of beginnings is because they can be thrilling but challenging and daunting, yet are essential to feeling the crackling fires of our neurons. (Blank looks.) Being a beginner makes you feel alive.
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