In my middle school, the electives included art, home economics, typing and wood shop. “Elective” was a misnomer, in that every student — girl or boy, this was the 1980s, after all — was required to take all of those classes. Not surprisingly, I loved art— with its pointillism projects, and home economics— despite tangling a huge wad of thread in the sewing machine. Typing was at least practical. But the last elective of seventh grade I dreaded. That was when we had to go to wood shop. Along with the other twelve year-olds, I filed into a cavernous shop and took a stool next to a workbench. Sawdust and machine oil wafted through the room, which echoed and shook when one of the power tools was turned on.

The teacher must have given us some brief directions about measuring, tracing and cutting, but my main memory of the shop instructor is of him sitting behind his desk, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. 

 I started off with an easy project: a cutting board, which required only selecting a large flat piece of wood and tracing a pencil outline of a handle. Then, I was supposed to use a power band saw to trim the excess around the handle.  Strapping on the safety goggles and praying to keep my fingers intact, I flipped the switch. The machine rumbled as the blade jiggled up and down, slicing through the wood. Except for the potential for injury, it was not much different than guiding muslin under the foot of a sewing machine.  

With my confidence raised by the cutting board, I moved on to a more complicated endeavor. The napkin holder required tracing and cutting a back as well as a front board, and a thin strip to hold together the bottom. Then, all the pieces had to be sanded and nailed together, with the tiny nail heads driven in and puttied over. The finished creation glowed with shellac.  Unlike other people’s projects, mine was symmetrical front and back, with edges sanded smooth.

The twenty-five years or so since wood shop class have not been kind to my napkin holder. The shellac is yellowing, and at one point the boards started pulling apart.  “The joints are just butted together,” my husband pointed out. “They should be dovetailed.” He is an expert woodworker, having raised extra money as a teenager by cutting out little wooden ducks and hearts for sale to local artisans. At least he takes my rickety napkin holder to the garage for some first aid.

I insist on keeping the thing, despite the fact that better-looking tabletop accessories can be had at Target for very reasonable prices. Mine is just as good. It was made by a twelve year-old Asian girl, just like everything at Target.

 My insistence on holding on to my wood shop projects might indicate that I learned some major Life Lessons  in the class. Measure twice, cut once...

But no. Seventh grade wood shop did not catalyze any Grand Transformation in my life. No Girl-versus-Machine triumphs or do-it-yourself love of power tools. I have not operated a drill press or jigsaw since middle school. Yet the napkin holder has a place on my Thanksgiving table, while the Home Ec pillow — shaped like an apple with a green worm poking out of a hole — was long discarded.

I'm not the only one, either.  

"Is that... no, it couldn't be!" my childhood friend Lisa squealed, upon seeing the rickety pine napkin holder on my dining room table.  At the time, we hadn't seen each other in over ten years. She had kept her napkin holder, as well, although she conceded that mine was in better shape.

The napkin holder survives out of the sheer novelty that I made it. With my hands. And power tools. Of course, I've made plenty of other things: a prom dress inspired by Molly Ringwald, amateurish acrylic paintings, a mean almond cake. But nobody expects a woman of my generation to do woodworking. Heck, the men of my generation don't really need to know how to build things.

So, I guess maybe I did learn something from my middle school wood shop class.

Text and Photos © 2010 Grace Hwang Lynch