Take this one to the library

by CONNON BARCLAY

My parents had moved to Isabella Street right behind Angel School. One of the motivating factors for the move was the excellent school district and neighborhood.
The school area was about three blocks long and a great block wide with the first through sixth grade entirely on one side and the seventh through ninth grade on the other side with a nice gym and class space in between.

One of the excellent things about this early fifties junior high school was the wide ranging curriculum. Loaded with college tracked regular courses, the administrators still found time to insert some exposure to standard shop and trade classes. The way it was handled for the boys concerned mostly seventh grade.

First each boy would take courses from a Mr. Krause in the following: foundry, metal lathe, tin shop, electrical, and printing. Dad knew I was not looking forward to these courses, even though each section would only be two weeks long. Both my parents firmly believed that for setting goals later in life I needed to rule out those things that would not interest me. They wanted me to decide on my own without their input.

Actually, while the boys were in these trade-shop classes the girls had their own curriculum. One of their modules was cooking, and both my parents would have welcomed a transfer to the same, however in those archaic times gender discrimination was the norm. As Dad would have said, “The best chefs in the world are men, so why can’t my boy take a cooking class?” Dad knew I was far more comfortable in a kitchen than around a tool box, etc.

While I threw myself totally into the foundry section, it soon became quite apparent to Mr. Krause that I was never going to prepare a mold he would be comfortable pouring in his good shoes, etc. In tin shop they would make curtain rod holders and in electrical shop they were making a thing to move current around as a precursor to a simple radio connection of some kind. On the metal lathe the guys were setting up the instrumentation to make a ‘prick punch’ (and I’m not making up that term) and others guys were hammering out artwork in tin and other metals.

I did not care for any of these activities, however, the wise instructor knowing my love for words (it was part of my young resume even at that age) gave me a special project. Before some printing projects could begin, someone would have to sort out ALL the letters. There was this huge letter container with little compartments for all the letters and all the capital letters and other markings and someone from a previous class had tipped the thing upside down onto the floor. I wondered if some eighth grader had also wanted cooking instead of shop classes. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with clumsy hands.

I accepted the project and did a fine job and received a grade that even surprised Dad. The next semester I began other shop classes across the hall with a Mr. Fee. He taught wood shop. In his section one worked on bandsaws and jigsaws and in two weeks needed to complete either a coat rack or a flower box.

Dad told me to do the window ledge flower box because any fool could cut a half dozen pieces and nail them together. I flunked flower box right away when my pieces didn’t line up and apparently it had something to do with my inability to manage a wood planer. I didn’t tell Dad, and I quickly tried the coat rack. On that project one first cut out animal figures on the jigsaw. I broke two blades and was retired by Mr. Fee.

The one wood project I had wanted to try was the baseball bat on the wood lathe, however, it was not to be. Mr. Fee (who Dad knew personally), like Mr. Krause, had a project especially for me. I was given the job of checking out tools and paint and checking them back in. This managerial function was rather pleasant.

Dad was pleased when I actually did well in the drafting section; however, for me this was more of a math session than working with tools, etc. Also I did receive an excellent mark in the knowledge of tools. Mr. Fee had all the tools hanging on his class walls with the appropriate names. For his big test all the name tags were removed and we were expected to correctly name each item.

As we discussed the end of my brief adventure into the skilled trades area, Dad remained positive about the experience. He and Mom both were pleased that I realized the importance of the skilled trades and that I had discovered solid respect for any workers in the trades. Dad was especially pleased that I mentioned how some kids, that were not very proficient in some of the college prep classes, seemed so at home and so advanced in the environment of those shop classes.

Later in high school when I took something called an Iowa Achievement Test, the results were outstanding. I scored in the top two percent of the nation in every category except one. When it came to mechanical aptitude I was far below the average. Although this was somewhat puzzling to the school counselors, etc., it came as no surprise to my father.

Dad knew I was a bit different in that I had no use for tinker toys or erector sets, etc. when most my age relished having such presents. The neighborhood hobby store—where most of the other guys went for model airplanes, ships, cars and the like—was of no interest to me. I don’t think I ever bought anything at that store, although it seemed like everyone bought parts for their hobbies or train sets or airplanes at the store.

Nevertheless, my father was always positive about having a son with little or no skills in the mechanical scheme of things. He kept being positive and aware of my love for books and words and such even after the time he enlisted me to assist him with a building project.

Dad had decided to add a room onto the house and in the process he was going to teach his number one son how to lay brick and handle the various tasks in expanding one’s home. I was quite young; however, Dad wanted my assistance, etc.

After several days of working with Dad we both were frustrated. He calmly took me by the hand, and we went into the kitchen to see Mom. He gave me to her and said, “Take this one to the library. It’s books he’s interested in.”

Yes, sir. Dad knew well before Mr. Krause or Mr. Fee or even those Iowa tests that I would not be a carpenter or a plumber or an electrician or anything in the skilled trade areas. Still, he let me find my way, encouraged me to follow my own ‘gifts’ and he never made me feel bad about not having or wanting some of the skills he himself was so proficient in and with. Instead, he was rather proud that I developed an intense appreciation for those considered ‘blue collar’ workers in the fifties.
Moreover, my parents, if put to a test, both believed the most respected of all workers were farmers and then came skilled trades, so in the scheme of parental things my seventh and eighth grade shop experiences had to be considered so positive one wonders why all schools don’t have such mandatory programs today.

Editor’s note: CONNON BARCLAY was a freelance writer from Michigan and frequent writer for Living. After this article was accepted for publication, Connon’s wife notified us that he died Sept. 20, 2011, at the age of 72 after health issues for several years. We will miss Connon’s down-to-earth submissions.

©2009, Valley Living