I write this piece with a profound love and respect for my father; how he lived his life and shared it with those around him. Many of my early memories are of times we spent engaging in activities he loved and wanted to share, not to make me into a miniature of him, but to share something he loved in the hopes that someday his example would lead me to find my own path, my own interests. And if he could share in them, too, so much the better.

The genesis of this piece is pinewood derby season, when "kids" of all ages gather to make and race gravity driven wooden cars for the love of creation and dreams and fellowship.

 

Saturday morning, bright yet chill

A perfect winter morning to build, indoors

Young people gather, blocks of wood at the ready

Parents close, not hovering,

there for the joy of creating with their young.

 

Coffee and hot chocolate in hand

friends new and old talk

excited to share their ideas

and maybe find new ones.

The goal: wooden cars to race.

 

I remember those days from my youth

Going to dad’s wood shop (the basement)

Spending the morning designing

Amid the wonderful smell of fresh cut wood

oils and stains pungent, yet enticing.

 

Then the tools. Big, bigger than me.

And sharp, sometimes loud.

All dangerous, and fascinating

I longed to use them

(and eventually did, but not that day)

 

Sketching my ideas,

drawing only as well as a 7 year old can

Dad used graph paper

turning my primitive sketch

into a design we could measure and trace.

 

Next, the safety gear and talk

Decked out apron and safety gloves,

Even goggles, in use.

Looking like a miniature “lab rat”

Trying not to bounce too much.

 

First trace the pattern on the block

A police car, I think

Next the saw.

Loud and fast, frightening

and exciting at the same time.

 

Dad did the work, but

I was in front of him

Helping to guide the block

(at least he let me think so)

slowly (to me) the block became the car

 

It wasn’t done.

Cutting the shape was only the first

Next were the tools I could use

Rasps, sandpaper, my first real tools.

Scent of fresh cut wood filling the room

 

Dad was there, occasionally making a suggestion.

When a hand saw was needed

he showed me how,

but let me be in control

A marvelous gift

 

After a couple of hours

though they seemed longer

and shorter at the same time,

the car was ready for the final

steps – paint and wheels

 

Soon the car was done.

Rolling across the floor

filling me with wonder

Here was my idea made real

And I made it

 

At least that’s what Dad let me believe.

The day had been filled with

the wonder of creating

and the joy seeing it become.

That was dad’s goal

 

Now, dad has long since passed

And I found my own hobbies and

joys of creation that I share

my goal, like dad’s, is for others

to find their own paths

 

More amazing, I share

woodworking and making,

the skills my dad taught me,

with a new generation of youth (and parents)

hoping they, too, will find the joy

 

Many of my best and deepest memories

are those made and shared with my dad.

I hope this new generation,

someday far from now,

will remember fondly and make memories with others