Shop class. Ah, good ol' shop class. It was called Shop back then. No Industrial Arts. No Industrial Technology and other fancy new age names. Just Shop. That was all. Up to sixth grade, the nuns had enough trouble keeping chalk dust off their habits and dress. Sawdust would have pushed them over the edge. As a matter of memory, I wish a couple of them had gone over the edge. Sister Mary Joanne, are you listening? When I moved to Lincoln Junior, I had some poor bloke for seventh grade Shop class. He had a pretty hard time with 'crowd control', if you know what I mean. The eighth grade shop room was overseen by the, at times tyrannical, Mr. H-. I saw "The Caine Mutiny" that fall for the first time with Dad (I watch it often still), and saw at times Captain Queeg in the teacher, who controlled the wood in that room. Let's see, I made a key holder with our last name initial in the middle. I thought I got an A. Captain Queeg didn't! Next, I made a cribbage board. Grampa had passed away that past summer, and he taught me the game summer nights on his back porch. I still have the board we played on. I thought it fitting to make one. I thought I deserved an A. Captain Queeg didn't! There was always extra wood lying around the shop, so I asked the 'good captain', if I could take on another project. He told me to pick a project, get some plans, buy the wood, and I could work afternoons under his guidance. I think he thought that would discourage me. He thought wrong! At the time, I subscribed to Mechanix Illustrated and found a design of a magazine rack within its pages. It took me longer than I thought it would to complete. Things always do. I applied the final two coats of shellac in our cellar and stood back and admired the job. Mom liked it so much she put it in the den and stuffed it full of her magazines and other junk. Wood and I have had a love/hate relationship over the years. Sometimes, I meet with success with pine, nails and screws and at other times... I've been hammered.