At the end of our first lecture, after two or three long, awkward breaks in the long, mostly awkward presentation on the otherwise scintillating topic of lumber, our instructor informed us that we'd spend the remainder of the allotted time cleaning the workshop in preparation for the semester ahead.
He framed this with a tone familiar to summer campers and army recruits - the cleaning of the workshop being offered as a combination of orientation and hazing, at the end of which we would have not only a clean place to enjoy but a "sense of ownership" over its contents and condition.
Even if we'd had not hours but days to "clean" this workshop, we would hardly have made a dent in the mess. Piles of nails lay about in piles of sawdust. A tool cabinet's doors swung open giving glimpses of a heaping melange of squares, chisels, mallets, and even more nails. Boxes of nails tumbled off shelves, spilling yet more nails on table tops, stacks of broken rods and boards, and countless half-used bottles of wood glue. I was happy to have brought my work gloves for picking up fist-fulls of nails.
Our instructions were simple: Open everything up, and vacuum (or wipe, or blow away) the sawdust.
Yet, the total chaos of the workshop made our task impossible. If not logistically, then at least mentally. Who could or would run a vacuum over a pile of debris only to make it "cleaner?" Wouldn't any rational person start by organizing the tools, consolidating the supplies, discarding the rubbish, and only then cleaning up the dust?
After an hour or so of 25 students working - some of them anal retentive and motivated to vigor by the sheer horror, others nonchalant and apparently lethargic (narcotized perhaps by the lumber lecture) - the workshop ended up in a condition I would call "barely passable." A condition one could with effort ignore, and to which one could gradually become accustomed.
As the debris and detritus cleared away, I became more aware of the equipment in the work shop. A wide-belt sander out of a Bond villain's torture chamber; grinders and polishers for chisels and knives; a drill press and scroll saw that took me back to Cub Scout days and the Pine Car Derby. Did you know there is such a thing as a Cabinet Door Machine?
Although I am excited to learn how to operate all these machines, I wonder: As I do not possess a 1,200-square-foot workshop of my own, nor a budget for massive, stationary power tools, how will I transfer the skills I learn here to my life after graduation?
Fortunately, the class ended with a primer on selecting hammers. That is something I can handle. (Har, har.)
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