MORE ATTENTION IN SHOP CLASS WOULD HELP

School, at least as I remember it, contained a youthful shorthand that served students well in the clipped, words-tossed-over-the-shoulder variety of hallway conversations. On reflection, it was as if young people believed only so many words were allotted to them in life, and they weren't about to waste some on academic formalities.

Physical education was never called that, but "P.E." Economics was shortened to "econ" and sociology took the unspellable abbreviation "soc" (long O, "sh" ending).

And just as language arts was condensed to "English," industrial arts held claim in teen parlance to the simple, barely descriptive title "shop." The latter usually was greeted by rolling eyes. Looking back, I don't know why.

Industrial arts, as practiced by most of the people I knew, was anything but artful. I can't recall if the course was required or not ... it just ended up of your schedule and you went at the appointed time.

Of course, the option was to take home economics ("home ec" in shorthand), but those were unenlightened days, and no boy I knew was secure enough in his manhood (though it couldn't be called that) or his social status to risk such a bold move.

So boys in their early teens, many of whom had just learned enough skateboard tricks to be harmful to themselves, slouched off each day to a detached school building that was full of ominous-looking power tools and administered by serious-looking men who knew how to use them.

For the first few days, I and my peers were given level-voiced instruction on what it would take to be around all these tools for nine months and leave the following summer with two good eyes and the full range of functioning appendages. Safety lectures were often graphic, teachers turning into storytellers of shop projects gone tragically wrong and former students who still walk with limps.

Boys who had this class after lunch hour counted themselves unlucky.

After being suitably warned, and after being schooled and tested about tool identification ("The above diagram is of: A. Hack saw, B. Coping saw ...."), the boys of shop class went to work on a year's worth of projects, a journey of self-realization that would produce a plastic letter opener, a metal barbecue fork, a leather wallet and wooden bookends.

Unfortunately, the class bore like a grudge a credo that should have posted on the shop walls like safety instructions: You only get out of this class what you put into it.

This was anathema for underachieving and indifferent boys, who found it convenient and safe to slip off into a corner of the large room and sand a slab of plastic for weeks on end.

For all the "have nots" who clustered in my corner and whiled away the hours with letter-openers-in-progress, talking with authority about sports and with awe about girls (that's why we didn't take home economics, because we could talk about neither), there were "haves" who were putting us to shame.

These boys, who embraced the chance to don safety glasses and fire up a band saw for an intricate cut, made letter openers that looked like Arabian swords, barbecue forks so nice their fathers are still using them, and some even got special dispensations and wood allowances to forgo our meager bookends and build bookshelves.

Of course, these guys were looked down upon in our cluster as kiss-ups, and we secretly hoped a belt sander would catch their project at a nasty angle and fling it against a wall.

These same fellows, inexplicably in most of our minds, pursued their aptitudes into high school and took shop classes that certainly weren't required, and sometimes even ventured into a very removed building where auto mechanics were taught. And we would sit in our "soc" and "psych" classes and shake our heads, because we had finally gotten into classes that girls flocked to.

(Strangely, the guys in shop classes never seemed to lack for dates ... or nice cars in which to take them out.)

While possibly it's a random thought, I think of this at times when plumbing in my house has backed up and I stand, misplaced water sloshing between my toes, wondering if I have the right tool to fix this mess and if I would know the right tool had I paid more attention in shop class.

And I've thought of this, too, with the closing here of a big hardware store, one where I've wandered aisles often, picking up the odd gadget, selecting materials for some home improvement, pondering what use might be made of a sale item.

Onto the list of small blessings for those living in this community, it must be added that Cape Girardeau has its share of good hardware stores, places where you can loiter among widgets and bolts for a time and think of doing something useful with your hands.

But I feel bad for those who will lose their jobs at Central Hardware ... not just in a community sense, but personally: I patched holes and sealed cracks, built walls and painted ceilings with their assistance. They are nice folks whose job performance had nothing to do with their fate, and that's an unpleasant thing.

For men slipping reluctantly into middle age, hardware stores carry a special attraction. It comes as little surprise to me that one of television's most popular shows now is a reworking of the battle of the sexes as filtered through a character obsessed with power tools.

People of my age are between periods of clay feet, those of youth and old age, when there is energy enough to attempt some challenging handiwork and confidence enough to risk screwing up ... and possibly money enough to pay someone to fix your blunder.

A good hardware store is one of life's comforts. Though a man can still wish he had been more attentive in shop class.