Some time ago the usual cast of characters and me were gathered in my shop having a great time at the dart board. We were playing games we made up ourselves because we’d grown weary of the ones ordinary people play. In fact, we became so fond of several of them that we went to the trouble of defining them with sophisticated names. One of them entered life innocently enough and for a while it remained quite nameless because Bob was being too ordinary trying to come up with a catchy title, so I pegged it “Bob’s Silly Game”. Oh, yes, we had others we enjoyed, too! We also had “Dime Drop” and, one that was always good for a laugh, “Brad’s Backside”.

Most people will have you believe a dart board in a wood shop is an excuse for a bunch of guys to get together after work to swill beer and further discuss their work. Not so in the Twisted Knot Woodshop because that particular business is something the proprietor’s wife will not tolerate. If you listen to her she’ll have you believe when we start doing that it suddenly becomes Joe’s Tavern, instead. But, the joke’s on her because we don’t discuss our work while we stand around swilling beer. We play our little made up games and all the while we amuse ourselves with philosophical yet stimulating friendly banter.

“Way to go, Bonehead,” I said to Brad, “You just cost me another dime!”

“Shad-ap,” He replied, cocking back his hand, “Don’t make me release this!”

It was on a snowy Friday evening when we once again found ourselves gathered at the tavern and we started with a rousing game of “Tar Baby 200” when Rich decided it was his turn to kickoff the philosophical yet stimulating friendly banter.

“Does anyone remember their first shop class?”

He said it while pumping a dart and only turned his head to witness our reactions. I’m sure the way he asked it sounded to him like it was a question I hear every day. But, to me, it was a bolt so far out of the blue that when it hit it had enough momentum to cause me to stagger.

Did I remember my first shop class? Of course I remember! Why, it seemed like only yesterday that Jon Yowell, my mentor and shop teacher, was yelling in my ear.

It was the dawning of a new school year and 1973 meant I was sufficiently old enough to change school locations because the previous year the Warden saw fit to release me from his institution so I could attend someone else's. He even had a cute name for it; he called it “graduating”. I, however, believe he made it up and suspected he grew tired of seeing me sit in his office day-in and day-out and was forcing me “move on” because he needed my spot for another file cabinet.

The Warden at Bealton, Virginia called it Cedar-Lee Junior High. I simply looked on it as just another institution with a name hardly worth remembering. What I did remember were the previous six years of riding on a bus and watching those junior high guys climbing aboard the bus every four months or so with another woodworking project.

“Ohh…man!” I’d say, elbowing the ribs of my seated neighbor, “Look at that gun rack he made! And…and,” I’d point, “that step-stool he’s got over there.” It seemed as if I’d never get old enough to move on to seventh grade and take my part in the great American tradition young boys know as Shop Class.

I was no stranger to working with wood - I was just a stranger to a shop that had tools. Oh, our little garage shop at home, sparsely equipped as it was, looked formidable enough with the radial arm saw sitting alongside a wall – it’s just that I’d never experienced seeing what a fully equipped shop looked like but that fact certainly didn’t stop my imagination from taking over.

It seemed logical to expect glistening, super sharp handsaws hanging from hooks here and there. I fantasized of screwdrivers and squares of all sizes lying on workbenches partially covered in sawdust. Visions of braces and highly polished bits hanging from pegboards with care danced in my head. And, if I closed my eyes and listened hard enough, I could even hear the whir caused by the rotating knives of the jointer as it started up.

Even then, at the crisp young age of fourteen, the act of stepping into a fully equipped shop on my first day of shop class was my idea of Heaven.

Instead, on my first day of shop class I stepped into a classroom that looked strangely familiar to those I encountered in the past in that there were desks everywhere and sitting on them were what seemed like books – thumbing through the pages my hand began to sting, confirming it. And there, at the very front of the room carving inlay into a piece of walnut, sat Mr. Yowell. I eyed this man with suspicion, no less wondering why I found him to be sitting there rather than standing by the shop door to welcome each of us as we passed over the threshold to begin our dabbling in advanced woodworking.

He wore a long beard, sported a cap that perched upon a nearly bald head and, as near as I could tell, appeared to be chewing tobacco. In a few moments I was proved correct when he spat a generous amount of brown liquid into a nearby trashcan. Presently, as the classroom gathered with more and more anxious 14-year-old boys, the bell rang and at that precise moment Mr. Yowell yelled for us to take our seats.

I was aghast! Seats? Ah, then it occurred to me…I’ll bet he wants us to sit down so he can get to know us a little better. That’s it…we’ll all sit down, have a nice little chat then scoot on into the shop, which I could clearly see through the window that separated us from it.

Crestfallen, I fell back on years of institutionalism and took my customary seat clear in the back row and in the farthest possible corner in order to get away the prying eyes of the person in charge of the class. I chose those spots because I never felt it was any of their business what I was doing back there anyway.

His litany began with something about how fortunate we were to be in his class and how we were expected to listen to what he had to say so that we could learn how to properly use the tools and…

The bell rang causing me to snap awake and to this day I distinctly remember thinking as I filed out of that classroom that we must’ve done something dreadfully wrong for him to make us sit in class all period. What about all those projects I'd seen? They didn’t just appear! Then I remembered they came every four months or so. Surely, he couldn’t possibly expect us to squat in a classroom for four months then roar out to the shop and cobble together a stupid stool, could he?

We’d endured a full week of his wanting to get to know us a little better and when Monday of the following week came I cautiously entered the classroom. Judging from the fact he was still wearing the same clothes it became clear My Mentor hadn’t moved nor had any intention of moving any closer to the shop. By this time though I had gotten to be right chatty with my deskbound neighbors so we stood around acting amicable and when the bell sounded Mr. Yowell suggested my "clan of ruffians" had better take our seats.

That really hurt my feelings because I'm far from being a conformist so I shot him a look that clearly said how much I disapproved of his accusation that I was part of a clan. He ignored me and began a brand new week of intense haranguing.

“Today,” Mr. Yowell began, “We’re going to learn to draw our projects, which you’ll find to be a vital step prior to beginning any woodworking project.” And, as he droned on, I had cause for alarm.

“Psssttt…hey Ken,” I whispered, “D-d-d-did he say ‘draw’?”

“Yeah,” He whispered back, nodding his head, “I think so.”

“What?! He’s gotta be kiddin’,” I blurted out, “I…I don’t think this guy understands why I’m here. I’m here to do woodworking, not draw! Cripes, the only thing I can draw is flies!”

As the months crawled by, I couldn’t help but think how thin the barrier was between me and all the tools and equipment situated on the other side. And, as each month waned, the monotone ebbing from the front of the class waxed. It seemed I’d never get to walk into the shop and I felt we’d been hoodwinked despite the occasional promise when he would say something like, “Now, when we get into the shop you’re going to…”

So, to alleviate my anxiety, I began daydreaming about how I was going to build my first project. I planned everything with such meticulousness that I just knew Mr. Yowell and I would soon become teacher and pet. I could plainly see my project folding together so precisely because I was using the tools exactly the way we were being taught to use them. I would take my good sweet time marking out each member using only the squarest of squares. I would only make each cut with the sharpest of saws. And, I would assemble each joint with hairline accuracy using just the right amount of glue. Turning to look longingly through the window once again I thought about how I would finish my project. Of course I would only use the best shellac, rubbed on in a series of coats to provide a rich and deep luster.

Ahh…mine was a much more blissful retreat apart from what the others in the class had to listen to. But, I was smart, too. As a means of diverting Mr. Yowell’s attention away from what I was usually doing, I would occasionally impart something useful to the class, and, I guess, in so doing I picked up on proper terminology, managed to scrape together enough talent for drafting and, remarkably, so did the others around me.

These collective accomplishments signaled to Mr. Yowell we were finally ready to enter Shangri-La; the up-until-recently impenetrable fortress that had been lying just inside the room adjacent to us lo those many months.

I selected the step-stool as my first project, however it wasn’t going to be just any step-stool; mine was going to have two whole steps. A step-stool seemed to be the most logical choice because of it being so utilitarian in nature. In my mind a step-stool was the best first shop class project.

Well, all that and the fact the cardboard box I lived in didn’t have a spare wall to hang a gun rack from anyway and, since I didn’t have any guns, I didn’t see the need for a rack to hang something I didn’t have.

When the door was finally opened we flew in there like moths to a flame and as I passed by, I ran my hands across everything. I was a kid in a candy shop - I didn’t know what to do first.

It was just like the bell out of a starting gate when Mr. Yowell uttered those innocent words, "Ok, I expect y’all to remember what you were taught..." And before he could finish any meticulousness I may have had went straight into the trashcan right behind the wad of gum I was forced to throw into it.

I might as well have marked out each member with a crayon. It was a race against time for me to use a square; a 16d nail dragged across the face of the board was good enough. Cutting the board proved to be no problem – I picked up whatever had a tooth on it. My hairline accuracy depended upon whose hair I was using and how many. Copious seemed to be the right amount of glue to use and any prolonged thoughts on how I would finish my step-stool stopped the second I splashed on the stain. As for a rich and deep luster…well, up until that point I’d seen better luster on a grapefruit.

But, it was my project and it was made by me and I took it home on the bus the same way I’d seen all them other kids taking theirs – home with pride.

And then I understood why none of the junior high kids ever said anything when they got on the bus - it was a silent testament that you’re now old enough to move on and it told the younger kids you're taking shop class when you climbed aboard with your slapped together step-stool or gun rack.

The mists of time swirled away and as the cloud thinned I found myself back inside the tavern with all my pals standing around me. Tears were in their eyes; apparently taken in by the account of my first shop class.

Then again, they were probably taken in by Rich's sudden gaseous release. Sometimes, beer and darts mingled with philosophical and stimulating friendly banter can do that to you.