Evan

Wooden Thing
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By Evan Johnston
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I never really fit in with the other kids in wood shop class. While everyone else made candle holders and baseball bats, and slingshots that were forbidden but encouraged, I went to each class with the hope of making marionettes for my own retelling of The Magic Flute.
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This idea came to me in a very old book about activities for children, called Entertainments for Children! which included pantomimes, a chapter on speeches, and rules for a game called mumblety-peg. Actually, it was listed in the table of contents, but the page had been cut out. After consulting a dictionary, I realized why.
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Of course I knew that all of the activities were out of date, but I liked the crosshatched illustrations and the author’s overconfident tone, which assured the reader that oration and pantomime were a valuable skills, whittling articulated puppet limbs was an easy easy, and that carving detailed, emotive faces could be learned in short order.
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The instructor took half a glance at the instructions for how to make Papageno and his bird cage, and shook his head. “That’s going to take a lot of time,” he would say, “Ask Chris over there to show you how to make a bat, and come back with something simpler.”
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Each week, the cast of The Magic Flute became more reduced, and my collection of small baseball bats piled up. But I refused to believe that the book had failed me. I kept leafing through it for some kind of project that would be more scalable, and that’s when I found the illusions.
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In any other book, they would be called magic tricks, but these were Illusions to Astound and Confuse. Along with the obligatory coin-behind-the-ear business, and the cups and balls, I came across a picture of a very simple box - - about the size of a small book. You put something in it - - a coin, a small pine cone, your expectations for wood shop class - - closed it, and then when you opened it again, that object disappeared.
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But just as clearly as I could see the crosshatched illustration on the page, I could see another equally detailed illustration in my mind: one of my shop teacher frowning. So I took a few sheets of paper, and sketched until I created a new, simpler version of the box. One so small and elegant that it could easily fit into my pocket.
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I imagined impressing my peers at recess with this novelty, although the book suggested that mirth and merriment were also suitable reactions. And when I finished drawing it was clear to me that here, finally, was a project that could be completed in the scant amount of time allotted for woodshop class, so much of which was spent sweeping up sawdust.
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My shop teacher looked over his half-glasses at the drawing, “Well, it looks fine, but what is it?”
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Knowing his disdain for the performing arts, I decided not to reveal exactly what it was. “It’s a hinged enclosure,” I said. All right, I doubt I said that, I was twelve. I think I said that I didn’t know what it was, and this sentiment was probably just fine with someone who was comfortable arming an entire sixth grade class with wooden bats.
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Whatever I said, we made it, and then I was left with my own Box of Confusion and Mystery, a slim and elegant illusion that could easily fit into the pocket of my jeans as if it were a gentlemen’s wallet - - a phrase which I must have picked up from being around old books. There was only one problem.
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After racing to redesign and create the box, I had forgotten to actually read how the illusion worked. And so I was left with a small, hinged piece of wood that didn’t really serve any purpose. I didn’t want to throw it away. I wanted to have just one thing from shop class that was my own. At first it was a shocking disappointment to think that I’d made something so totally useless, but I remind myself now and then that I did actually succeed in making something that managed to astound and confuse people. Even if that person was just me.