I think I found heaven. From the outside, it looked like a gigantic, corrugated-metal garden shed. But when I walked through the unassuming front door, I felt like Alice stumbling through the looking glass. Behind the portal, the sweet scent of freshly-cut wood filled my nose. A body-chilling cold seeped through my shoes from the concrete floor, and my eyes squinted in the dim light that barely filled the cavernous building.
What did I see? I saw wood scraps, work benches, half-built wooden boats — and power tools. I’m not talking about those cutesy tools in pinks and teals designed for delicate ladies’ hands to put up curtain rods with. These were real tools made for real jobs: routers and planes, band saws and jig saws and joiners, shelves of power drills and power sanders, a drill press and a table saw, and an air compressor cobbled together from old parts. I could build a small city with the contents of this place.
I came across this unlikely haven by way of boredom, too many episodes of “Monster Garage” and my Dad. I was home for winter break, trying to do something more productive than grow fat off Christmas buffets.
I found inspiration in the ripped cardboard box that held my records. Records really don’t travel well. They are heavy and awkward, and the Smirnoff box I was using just wasn’t working out. I decided to build myself a better container. And I found the perfect place to carry out the endeavor.
My dad is rebuilding the wooden dingy my great-grandfather built in 1935 from the design of the dingy class boats used in the 1932 Olympics. He rents space from Sound Opportunities, a government program in my hometown of Olympia, Wash., designed to help “troubled youth.” It is home to every tool known to mankind, and my new hero, program director Patrick Barmes. The man rebuilt an air compressor. How much cooler can you get?
On Christmas Eve, my dad and I paid him a visit. Instead of wrapping presents, caroling and eating figgy pudding, I was measuring, sawing and sanding. Sorry Santa, but you just can’t compete with a table saw.
Ohmigod, I got to use a table saw.
From wood scraps, glue, and an air-compressed nail gun (swoon!) I built a box perfectly sized to carry approximately 30 records. Okay, so all I did was make a big, wooden box. The skill level required was not so high. But it was a first for me — I never made it past the door of the middle school wood shop. The rumors about the teacher’s solo bathroom activities kept me far, far away.
But my creation is even, splinter-free, and it has handles perfectly sized for my hands, courtesy of a 1 1/8-inch drill bit. I think of it as a Fisher Price project: My First Box.
My project currently sits unfinished on my floor, awaiting a coat of paint. It was overshadowed by the store-bought brown leather record box my mom gave me
for Christmas.
I made a box. I got a box. Combined with the vibrating massage pen I received in my stocking, it was a strange holiday.