01/01/26

Today I spent some time in the workshop with Eli, my youngest son.

It all started yesterday when he came home from school with a piece of woven cloth he had made on a loom that a visitor brought to his class (grade three).

Eli is an artist. He creates things with the fascinated delight of someone who is constantly amazed that his hands brought forth beauty. Some of the things he does are beautiful only to him, and his delight is not lessened in the least when others don't understand them. It is good enough that he has created it, and that he likes it. I never get tired of watching him work, whether it be drawing, painting, or hammering scrap wood together in my workshop to represent something new.

I never bullshit him either. Either I like what he's made or I don't. I won't praise something to the skies that isn't high quality, bearing in mind the level of quality one can reasonably expect from an eight year old boy, but I won't insult it either. Insulting his work would be insulting him, just like anyone. It is just as insulting to give false praise in my opinion.

Anyway, when he brought this piece of fabric home he immediately made it into a hammock for his stuffed monkey. The next thing he did was ask if I could make him a loom.

"Eli, I have no idea what a loom looks like, nor how to build one" I said while lounging shamelessly on the couch. I immediately put thoughts of looms firmly from my mind.

He got his "Thoughtful" look on his face and disappeared in his room for awhile. a while later he came out and rummaged in my tool box and wandered off with the tape measure. Shortly before bedtime he emerged from his room with a piece of paper in his hand that he sat down on my lap and showed me.

The paper was covered with a step-by-step diagram entitled "Loom Instructions" It had been very carefully broken down into logical steps with dimensions and sub assemblies, as well as a complete materials list. He had even shaded in the areas that would need glue and specified screws where they were appropriate and nails in other places. All of this in what was obviously Eli's amazingly bad handwriting, very carefully executed.
I was flabbergasted with this work, without having it explained I could easily make out what was needed, and how it went together.

Today we went out to the workshop with the plans in hand and came into the house two hours later with a completed loom. The look on his face and the cries of awe and delight were indescribably wonderful as it came together.

I let him help running the bandsaw and drill press. Which was a pretty big thing for an eight- year-old.

The thing that made me sit back in wonder was the respect.

Not my respect for him, because that's always there. Not his respect for me, because that's always there too.

The thing that was wonderful to see was the respect he had for himself and his idea. He didn't come to me as a little boy to his father, he didn't come begging or in embarrassment. He came to me, head high needing help but not helpless. He came to me as I might go to an electrician if I needed house wiring done.

He was the boss, neither of us ever doubted it. I was working for HIM.

I was providing a service for him, but was far from a servant. I was a professional that had skills that he didn't.

I was working, and he was helping with whatever he could, but staying clear when he couldn't.

He held it in his hands when we were done and smiled more than his face could fit. He looked at me and said

"Perfect!, thanks dad" Then he turned and went into the house to try it out.

I had to stand there after he left and cry a bit. I have worked with my hands all my life, I have made many things, and done work for dozens of people.

Never, ever in my life have I been paid so much for two hours work.
 

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