The Wooden Sword

In honor of my dad's 90th birthday this week:

The year was around 1952. We had only been in our new home on Benjamin Street for a short time. The basement was still in its pre-paneling state. Primitive farm-scene paintings from the previous owner decorated the walls. Dad was working in a corner of the space that served as his workshop. I heard him working and walked down the dark, scary, open stairway. I had just seen or read something that gave me the desire for a sword. Perhaps it was from perusing a Dick and Jane reader. I seem to recall Dick with a wooden sword and a folded newspaper hat.  Or, perhaps it was from something I had seen on one of the two TV stations available at the time. In any case, I knew I needed a sword. Every guy needs one. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but I figured the talented man in the workshop could help me out.

I don’t recall how I made the request. It seems like it may have been indirect… something like: “Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone had a sword?” I also could have asked for the wood and nails to make a sword myself. My memory is dim on the manner of the request. Where my memory is not dim is on the response. No words were spoken by dad after my request. He simply reached over into a pile of scrap wood and extracted a narrow strip of pine. He stepped to the old gray Shop Smith and began sawing. At this point I was still not sure that he had actually heard my request. He remained silent. I realized a sword was coming to life only when he sanded the end of the wooden strip to a gently rounded point. Corners were rounded and sanded. Rough edges were smoothed. Soon a cross guard was taking shape. There were careful inspections for slivers. I watched in great anticipation. My need for a simple rude weapon was being greatly exceeded. I followed him back and forth through the shop. Eventually, the haft was tightly wrapped with cord. It formed an authentic, rounded, hand grip. He pulled out tool after tool, each exactly suited for the task at hand. Finally, he reached up and grabbed a can of silver spray paint. With a few expert sweeps of the can, my sword glistened to life. En garde! Magnificent. And way beyond my simple expectations. The total elapsed time for construction was probably less than fifteen minutes.  But the impact was a lesson for life. This was one of many similar experiences that I - and many others - have had with dad. 

With dad - about sword time.

  A few years later I expressed a need for some model terrain for my very-flat train set. I was thinking something from the store. Dad was thinking something from the workshop. I was soon introduced to metal hardware-cloth screen, paper mache and flocking. In a short time I had several mountains, cuts and tunnels to bring realism to my train set.

Another year I returned from the State Fair, enamored with the scale-model dioramas that I had seen in the Home Activities building. In a space of only a couple square feet, hobbyists had created realistic miniature scenes with model cars, trains or airplanes. There were molded hillsides, tiny buildings and delightful details. When I expressed interest in creating a diorama, we immediately set to work. Dad built a wooden base with a raised corner. I learned to sculpt plaster of Paris. I embedded tiny trees and bushes made from moss. While my diorama never made it through the gates of the fair, I enjoyed many hours of creative dreaming… and problem solving.  

There was a very effective series of public service ads produced by the church in the 1980’s. The punch-line for each ad was a statement. ‘Give your children everything, give them your time.’ I think the ads were a powerful reminder. The result of dad’s generous offering of time and talent has been the desire in me to enjoy the creation experience with my own children and grandchildren. Making things for and with children can be a frustrating, but rewarding experience. Today I make boxes, airplanes, tunnels, dinosaurs, carved fish, and yes, even dioramas with my grandchildren. I want to give them everything… but what I have to give them, is my time. It’s a lesson I learned at the feet of a master, my dad.