Metal Shop Miracle – A Life Lesson in the Form of a Metal Riveting Hammer

It’s been decades now, but the memory is still as vivid as if it happened yesterday…

The least likely kid the whole 8th Grade metal shop class was awarded the only perfect score for the most challenging assignment of the semester—a metal riveting hammer; eight inches in length with a four inch handle and a half-inch by half-inch square head.

What were the odds that this same kid, who’d turned in the worst sheet-metal lock-box in the entire class, would somehow wind up scoring the only perfect 75-points on this far more difficult hammer assignment? Probably somewhere near zero. And yet, it happened.

The metal shop gods must’ve been smiling on the day I nervously drilled holes into both the handle and head. They seemed still to be smiling the next day, when I tentatively took the tap in hand to nervously cut screw threads down into both holes, then used the die to cut external threads onto either end of the connecting shaft.

I carefully screwed the three parts of my hammer together, and discovered that they actually fit.

This initial success, however improbable, was not the miracle.

The miracle began the day I took my hammer home to show Dad how it was coming. He held it in his hands–those big, strong, highly skilled hands, that could do seemingly anything.

He studied it for what seemed like a long time.

I knew my hammer wasn’t awful—not the abject abomination my lock-box had been; but I could feel my palms sweating while waiting for him to break the silence.

He finally just laid my little hammer down on the kitchen counter, where it remained until after dinner.

Clearing the table, I concluded there was nothing really to be said about this very mediocre thing I’d created, so quietly dropped it unceremoniously into my book-bag.

And that’s when Dad finally spoke… “Bring your hammer downstairs to the shop.”

Dad’s basement workshop was a place of wonder to my 13-year old mind, where his surpassing craftsmanship approached levels of veritable wizardry.

Rummaging through several cluttered drawers, he produced a sheet of very fine sandpaper, some steel-wool, several lengths of emery-cloth, and, surprisingly, a crimped, old tube of toothpaste.

Wrapping my hammer carefully in cloth to protect it, he placed it between the jaws of a wooden vise and clamped it tight. He then showed me how to painstakingly polish metal, admonishing me to work every millimeter of that hammer, over and over again, first with the fine-grit, then steel-wool, then emery-cloth, then toothpaste, before a good final buffing. He said it would take a lot of time and a lot of “elbow grease,” but that the end result would be worth it.

It did take time—many hours spent down in that basement shop—after school, on Saturdays—rubbing and polishing and buffing, until fingers throbbed and arms ached.

Dad left me to it, but would periodically check my progress. I kept thinking it was done, but his approving nod of confirmation had still not come.

Finally, late on the Saturday afternoon before the Monday when this hammer assignment was due, he nodded.

No metal shop student ever turned in an assignment with more pride than I did on that Monday morning. My hammer positively gleamed! The shop teacher expelled a whistle of admiration as he took it from me, unable to hide his surprise at this impressive result from his least likely pupil.

And you already know the result: 75 points out of a possible 75; the only perfect score in the class.

And when some of my resentfully dumbfounded classmates pointed out that my hammer was not perfect in every observable detail, our teacher told them that it’s brilliantly polished finish more than made up for any minor imperfections.

It was a rare moment of triumph for a bookish, insecure 8th Grader, and one he would never, ever forget.

I still have that old riveting hammer. It is a treasure to me now—a precious talisman.

It’s a reminder of a lesson Dad taught me all those years ago. A lesson, not just about how to polish metal, or how to ace a challenging assignment, but a lesson about life: that the little details matter; and that what can sometimes feel like endlessly tedious and painstaking work, will eventually yield a surprisingly beautiful and gratifying result. Which, in the final analysis, will prove to have been more than worth the effort.

Thank you, Dad, for imparting this important lesson to a timidly awkward 13-year-old. It’s been a guiding principle in my life ever since.