Part 9

I sat toward the back of the class. It was a 9th grade U.S. history class at Pioneer Junior High… affectionately referred to as Pi. Hi. In those days, 9th grade was still part of Junior High. It was the first period after lunch and I was satiated, comfortable, and fighting off the urge to nap. The teacher was droning on in a boring monotone that was soothingly dull and guaranteed to make me lose the battle against sleep. I wished I knew which brilliant administrator it was who came up with the great idea of offering a U.S. History class right after lunch.

As my eyelids drooped and my head began to nod, my ears thought they heard the word “boat” and I was instantly awake again. He was saying something about Washington Crossing the Delaware, which was a rude let-down bringing me back to the cruel reality of a history subject, not a boating subject. At least with boats on my mind I might be able to avoid dozing while giving the appearance of paying attention and possibly steer myself clear of trouble.

I blocked him out and mentally reviewed my most recent conclusions regarding my next boat’s design criteria and performance expectations. They had been bumped up a notch due to my past experiences. A size increase would be necessary so that it could accommodate at least 2 crew members thereby eliminating the need to wait for a turn. The ability to keep water out was also high on my list. In my mind, to haul the weight of 2 boys equated to increased beam, freeboard, and draft. Esthetics seemed to have importance as well. I didn’t want to have to take responsibility for having created a monstrosity.

In the background of my daydream, I heard him tell us to get out a piece of paper and write down a few important dates that would for sure be on the next test. I reached for my spiral-bound and began thumbing through in search of a blank page. On my way there I got distracted by some of my more recent boat sketches. Some of them were beauties but far beyond my skill level. While he assumed that I was diligently taking notes, I penciled in weak places and accented important details on some of the unfinished drawings.

Because it was so readily available and affordable, I felt restricted to the dimensions of a 4X8 sheet of plywood. That meant that it needed to be as wide as 4 feet but could only be 8 feet long. This presented a problem designing something within those limitations that still had the pleasing visual characteristics of a boat. When drawn to scale, I found its appearance totally unacceptable because it tapered from 4 feet wide to a pointed bow within the confines of an 8 foot sheet of plywood. It looked stubby and awkward. I liked the feel of the three foot beam but wasn’t sure it would ride high enough to be comfortable for 2 people. A square bow lent decent proportions to the four foot beam but it almost caused me to break into a cold sweat because it reminded me of past experiences.

By now, I considered myself to be an experienced shipwright; one well versed in the use of plywood as a construction technique. Canvas and tar were definitely out! Despite my affinity for wood, I couldn’t help but notice the appearance and growing popularity of Fiberglass Reinforced Plastic (FRP) in boat construction. It was a relatively new medium of the day and only barely taken seriously for offshore work. For my purposes, it was the natural cure to all of my painful agonizing about how to keep the insides of my next boat dry. My early morning 30 minute library research sessions headed off in a new direction. It seemed fairly simple to do… easy enough for even a 14 year old. Take a half cup of resin, thoroughly mix in 12 drops of hardener and spread it on quickly before it had the chance to “kick” and turn into a solid block of plastic. It wasn’t long until I felt confident that I knew enough to give it a try. I was mentally ready to go. All I needed was to decide on the design I was going to build.

“Take out your textbooks,” the teacher droned. I raised the desktop and there sitting on top of my textbook was my recently checked-out library book, “Boat Building with Fiberglass” and temptation took an even deeper grip. I felt foolishly confident that if I managed to get it open on the desk in front of me perhaps he wouldn’t notice. It was slightly smaller than the textbook… about the size of a hymnbook and so I further disguised it by setting my notebook slightly over the top of it while I began to browse.

Speaking of hymnbooks…

Over the course of that school year, I became acquainted with Donna. She was my older sister’s age and enjoyed singing. She had a pretty soprano voice as I recall. My sister and I liked to sing and, sitting together in church, Jessie taught me all about harmony while singing hymns. In the years previous to puberty before my voice began to change, (I was probably about 9 or 10) we developed a pattern of singing together. If Jessie sang the melody, I would sing alto. If Jessie took the alto line, that afforded me the choice of melody or tenor. As my voice eventually began to drop, I discovered the thrill of being able to sing way down low on the bass line. It was probably my favorite because it was the foundation of the harmony and provided a solid sense of rhythm and confidence. However, over the years I learned that really good basses are hard to find but regular basses are a “dime-a-dozen”. Anybody can sing bass so I decided to be a tenor and fortunately, my “voice change” was kind to me and accommodated my resolve. I can’t remember mother ever involving herself in our harmonizing. I knew she sang even well enough to be in the church choir. I think when she heard us break into parts, she must have stopped singing just to listen.

One morning, when we began singing the opening hymn, we heard the sweetest soprano sounds coming from the pew behind us. Jessie immediately switched to alto, which forced me down to tenor and, golly, it was pretty! I didn’t dare turn around to see who that sweet sounding soprano was but it was obvious that she was tuned-in to the sounds of our trio as well.

After the meeting concluded, we discovered that it was Donna and the three of us got together and agreed that it would be fun to try something besides hymns. There was a talent show coming up, numerous school opportunities and, of course, the music chairman was always excited to learn about new sources for special musical performances in church. And thus began a life-long career and love of music and singing.

I suppose that because it was close enough for me to walk there after school, we decided to do our practicing at Donnas’ house. It was at one of these practices that I became acquainted with Don, Donnas’ dad and namesake. I knew who he was but until then I didn’t really know him. He had a calm way of imparting wisdom that taught me so many important, timelessly valuable lessons about life. He was a gentle, loving man and as a result of the friendship that evolved, I will be eternally grateful and forever in his debt for his selfless kindnesses and personable interest in me. I only wish that I had one more chance to talk to him. I’d spell out the depth of my appreciation with a big ol’ bear hug.

As you can imagine, practicing with Jessie and Donna involved tolerating considerable girlish chit-chat, which occasionally caused us to (in my opinion) waste a lot of time. While patiently waiting one day for their gossip sessions to wind down so we could head for home, Donnas’ dad noticed my boredom and sympathetically invited me out to his garage.

When we entered, I immediately could tell that he hadn’t parked his car in there for a long time. There was sawdust everywhere. It was a large garage and directly in the middle I recognized a table saw. Lining the walls and set up in various spots throughout the area were numerous other tools most of which I had no idea what task they performed. I saw blades and bits and switches and cords running everywhere. There was a strong, sweet smell of a mixture of oak, fir, and glue and off to the side was a project in progress that had shelves and lots of clamps. I felt like I had just crossed the veil and this must be what heaven smelled like.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think this is really neat!” I responded. “What does that one do?”
“Oh, it lines up the blogenphlap with the forthfernaught then trims them flush.”

I had no idea what he was talking about but he sure sounded authoritative like he knew everything there was to know. Then I noticed that his right hand was missing a finger.

“What happened?” I pried, gesturing toward his hand.

He then took the opportunity to spend 20 minutes instilling in me a healthy fear and a cautious respect for the destructive powers of the spinning blade of a table saw. He made me swear that I would tirelessly and devotedly pay homage to its supreme authority.

“When that blade is turning, IT is in charge, not you!” he boisterously ordered.” Never close your eyes or turn your back on that tool when the motor is on,” he emphatically demanded with a drill sergeant’s tact. “You’ll never win a battle against THAT blade, I promise you! When YOU’RE not paying attention, IT will be.”

Clearly he loved the tool but hated it at the same time. As I resisted the urge to vomit, I was almost sorry I brought it up!

Note to reader:
Although I’ve had my share of close calls over the years and have even on several occasions lost skin and blood as a result of that blade’s gruesome, deadly, and unyielding vengeance, I feel blessed to be able to announce that I still have all of my fingers. His graphically dreadful admonitions that day must have sunk in and scaring the bajeebas out of me paid off. (Knock on wood because I’m not done with the table saw yet!)