I Don’t Sew, I Staple
When My Home-Ec Teacher Suggested I Try Wood Shop
As with all arts and craft projects, I looked at the pictures on the Simplicity pattern and decided that I would stitch the perfect pair of beige pants. In case you are one of those lucky, lucky few in this universe who blissfully fit into any pair of pants or jeans, please stop reading. The rest of us would like to ignore you exist.
Our mirrors blatantly confirm every flaw we imagined, the minute we pull on a pair of pants. Too this, too that and why do the hems seem to predict the great floods of Noah? So, there I was in middle school, convinced that since I could never fit into pants the way I wanted, I would just create the perfect pair for myself. Yes, when you meet me, you will understand that I am often convinced that if I do not like something, I can create something better. Well, that is another story…
I found the perfect beige color that I wanted and came to class with the measured yardage required. Until this point, I was quite the success! It’s what happened afterwards that still remains a mystery to me. I thought I followed directions. I know how to put together IKEA products; so, what could go wrong? Apparently everything. Within the next few weeks, I successfully created the largest pair of pants ever seen in the school. Two of me could have easily fit into one of the legs. Each day, Ms. Golightly would attempt to fix the problem and somehow the project turned worse each week. Sometimes, teachers know when to suggest an alternative.
One day, after tangling up another sewing machine with its own bobbin, Ms. Golightly gave me a note to take to the school registrar. The next day, I was quickly transferred to the annex, the building that housed both wood shop and metal shop. There I sat, facing the circular saw, what looked to me like a scary monster with metal teeth, right in the middle of the room. I was quickly introduced to the rules of wood shop — touch nothing that has to be plugged in. Then, something magical happened. The wood shop teacher, showed me how to take a piece of sandpaper, attach it to a block of wood and soften the edges of the pre-cut pieces of the memory box. Each time I smoothened the pieces of cedar, it grew softer to my touch. Newly sanded, each piece filled my sense of touch and smell. The thing about cedar is that its distinct fragrance is a mix of grass, rain and dust. There is no other scent quite the same.
Somehow, I completed wood shop with no incidents; and at the end of the semester, I had put together a beautiful box, complete with a tiny little lock in the front. It may seem to be a small thing for others but to a middle school kid, it meant the world. Now, I staple or iron things that need to be fixed and my tailor has a steady pile of work. The aroma of cedar reminds me of a pair of misshapen pants and the teacher who knew enough to steer me towards a better fit.
