I was a teenager when I took my first wood working class. I knew from the moment I walked into the classroom and smelled the sweet, aromatic combination of wood, glue and stains that I was home. I ended each school day with at least an hour in the shop crafting something – anything.
Even at the end of the school week, I never minded that the Waterloo party bus filled with classmates going off to the Friday night football game was loudly loading up and I wasn’t on board. I wanted to stay and design, cut shave and stain whenever Mr. Dowds, our shop teacher would let me.