A Carpenter's Apron

When it comes to clothes I'm all for comfort. I don't like lace because it itches. I like my t-shirts because they are soft and I like sweatpants and jeans because I don't have to worry about what my skirt is doing or not doing when I sit down. To me, clothes and hair should be easy to take care of and stay out of my way so I can get on with life. Pants or shorts should have lots of pockets and ones deep enough to actually put stuff in. I do carry a bag or a backpack for the larger items but there are some things that should just be handy in a pocket, my keys a handful of tissues because I hate having to wipe my nose on my sleeve and you never know when you're travelling if the pit toilet will actually have paper in it, assuming that is, the presence of a pit toilet.

There is one category of clothing that I'm an absolute sucker for though: clothing that makes me feel I belong. When I was teaching I always bought school clothing, fleece vests for draughty classrooms, wind jackets for walks in spring and fall and even drama club jackets. Wearing this sort of clothing was a way of saying, “Here's where I belong; my friends are here; these people accept me.” When I was running I proudly displayed my race shirts. They said to the world, but mostly to me, “I've done something I'm proud of.”

The day after completing the Honolulu Marathon my running partner and I were walking, no make that hobbling, down the street and a man stopped us. “How much does one of those cost,” he asked pointing to our finisher's shirts. My response was, “It cost's 26.2 miles.”

In my mind, I earn the right to wear certain types of clothing. When I cycle I wear the brightly- coloured jerseys and road shorts. The clothes say to me that I'm a cyclist. For a while I cycled in whatever I had but cycling clothes are designed for the sport and as the rides got longer I began to see the wisdom in the padded gloves and shorts and fabrics that wick sweat away from the body. At some point I decided that I qualified to wear the gear.

It was the same with running. It was a few years before I bought my first running cap and that symbol was so important to me that when the hat blew off my head I immediately spun around to chase it rolling my ankle on the side of the pathway and tearing a chunk of bone off my foot. I simply didn't think about where my foot was. I just wanted my hat back.

It's Labour Day, a day that used to be sad for me because I had to go back to teaching the next day. I had many good times teaching and I liked the kids but I always felt a heaviness descending on me when I anticipated all the work that needed to be done and the attendant feeling that I was just barely keeping my head above water no matter how many hours I worked. Today Labour Day means only that I need to pay attention to school zones while driving. It has been six years since I left the classroom and I don't call myself a teacher anymore.

It's been ten years since I took my first woodworking course and I think it's now time to call myself a woodworker. Woodworking is my delight and I'm getting better at it. When I started down this road I'd hardly ever held a hand saw and none of the tools seemed to behave the way I wanted them too. I was doubly frustrated when I looked across at the guys at the other benches whose tools seemed to be extensions of their arms. They had been sawing boards and pounding nails since they were three. I hadn't. I had a lot of practice to catch up on. There were many times when I felt like quitting but I really loved the wood and wanted desperately to be able to make beautiful things so I persisted. Now, these ten years in, I have enough skill and confidence to tackle many of the projects I can think up. They are rarely as well executed as I would like but they serve a purpose and mostly don't fall apart.

In the last couple of years I've built drawers for my computer desk and drawers to store CD's in the living room. I've built a cabinet to hold my sharpening stones and a small cabinet with a drawer to sit behind the driver's seat in Flopsy the old brown camper. On our trip across Canada this summer it made accessing maps and electronic bits and pieces much easier and I put a toggle on the drawer so that it would stay closed when we went around corners.

With much instruction and a lot of help I've built a workbench and a tool chest. I wouldn't have attempted either of those projects on my own. I've made Christmas ornaments, puzzle boxes, picture frames, door harps and pens and some of my work has sold. I make incredibly stupid mistakes and most of the time I can figure out a way to fix them. If not, I start over and make a different mistake the next time. I have more projects in mind than I can complete in the next two years and I'm always adding to the list. The important thing is that when I'm in the shop time stands still. I look at the clock to see how long parts have been in glue-up and marvel at where the time has gone. The hours are never long.

At times I wonder what it would have been like to have a job that provided the same kind of magic. Some people are lucky enough to experience that. I'm grateful that I have the time and the place to indulge in a pastime that gives me so many rewards. So this year, as teachers said goodbye to their holidays for another year, I went out and bought myself a carpenter's apron. I feel like I've earned the right to wear it and it has lots of pockets. My tape measure and the wax for my hand planes have a place to live in the apron. I'm not sure what other tools will find their way into the pockets but that will evolve as I work.

When I taught I carried my pens and keys around my neck on a lanyard. It may have looked dumb but I always had a pen within reach. Each morning when I went into my classroom I took the lanyard and put it over my head. It was part of the ritual of getting ready to work. Each night before I turned out the lights in my classroom I took off the lanyard and put it in my brief case before putting on my jacket and heading home.

Now each morning when I walk into the shop I can put on my apron. It's a way of connecting, a way of paying homage to my grandfather and my great uncle who were woodworkers. It's a way of belonging.