High School: Metal Shop

My high school had this really stupid policy of requiring students to take two years of classes designed to give them some saleable skill. This wasn’t such a bad idea. The stupid part was what they considered to be a saleable skill. We students had our choice of: metal shop, wood shop, jewelry shop or auto shop. None of these things appealed to me, so I randomly choose metal shop.

I’m not really sure what they were trying to accomplish with this policy. The only class that they offered that I would consider even slightly saleable was auto shop. Other than that, it all seemed pretty stupid to me. I didn’t take auto shop because I didn’t like to get all greasy and dirty.

I thought they would have been better advised to require classes such as cooking, accounting, typewriting. I told this to my counselor, but she only frowned, and told me to do what I was told.

I spent two years in Mr. Vandenberg's metal shop. Mr. Vandenberg was a kindly middle-aged man, slightly balding, with a powerful frame. I thought he had probably spent some time in the military, probably the Marines.

On the first day of class, he gathered us all around, and explained the various and sundry rules we were to follow.

"Rule one", he said, "No loose clothing. When you enter this room, remove all ties and jackets. If you have loose long sleeves, tie them down with rubber bands."

"Rule two", he said as he walked over to a very intimidating drill press, "no horseplay. Anyone caught fooling around will get suspended. These machines can cut you in half before you know it."

"Rule three", he began, "always grasp a plug like so when pulling it out of the socket." This was his pet peeve. He always got pissed whenever anyone yanked a cord from its socket.

"Any questions?" he asked. Of course, we didn’t have any. We just wanted him to shut up and let us loose on the machines.

The time in metal shop went by quickly enough. It was rather dull and mindless work, but it was certainly better than algebra.

During the first semester, I made the prerequisite fireplace grate, as a present for my parents. I made some fireplace pokers, and helped some other students fix various pieces of their cars.

I really pissed off everyone (all the teachers and administrators, that is) when I began making knives. I checked out a book on the subject from the public library (our school library didn’t have that kind of book around), and carefully made my plans. When I was sure I understood the entire process, I began work.

First, I took a piece of steel and heated it until it was cherry red. Then I hammered it flat. Then red some more, then more hammering. This continued until I had exactly the shape I wanted. Then I was ready to harden the blade.

To do this, you heat up the piece of metal as hot as you can. Then you quickly drench it in oil. If you do everything right, you have a very hard blade. If you do it wrong, the blade shatters and you loose a few days work.

I must have done it right, because it didn’t shatter. I spent a couple more days grinding down the edge to razor sharpness. I had a friend make me a beautiful wood and leather handle, for a small fee, of course.

I was so proud of that knife. I was badly weighted (when thrown, it tended to go handle first), a little lopsided, and not quite straight, but I made it myself! Without help from anyone, especially any teachers.

Predictably, when Mr. Vandenberg saw it he went through the roof. "There’s no way", he yelled, "that I’m going to allow weapons to be made in my classroom. I want that thing destroyed!"

I tried to explain, "It’s a fantasy knife. It’s supposed to duplicate a knife I read about in Lord of The Rings! It’s not going to be used on anyone!"

Mr. Vandenberg thought I was lying. I think he had visions of me using his metal shop as an armory, selling the weapons made there to all the other kids in school. Maybe he feared a rebellion. Anyway, he was adamant, the knife must be destroyed.

I refused. Mr. Vandenberg took me to the principles office, who had a long talk with me. He made it clear that I could destroy the knife myself, or he would inform my parents. Also, I had to promise not to use the school facilities to make any more weapons of any kind.

So I had to destroy my knife. Mr. Vandenberg wanted to destroy it himself, but I wouldn’t let him touch it. I felt terrible, as I cut the thing into pieces with a very hot torch. After that, I never did anything more than was required to pass the class.