Volunteers Wanted.

It was on one of my walks that I saw a huge sign outside a building that read ‘volunteers wanted’. I couldn't quite tell what this building was, nor what the volunteering would be for, so I crossed the road and took a closer look, and I was confused still, so I went inside the building.

I was met with the sight of chairs, tables, shelving units, door handles and other things. There were some tins of varnish. Hang on, everything’s made of wood. Then a stout, cheery man came over. “Hello! Did you know, everything you see here, we make here”. After some chat he said something really exciting. “Would you like to see our workshop?”.

And I was led down a corridor, into a room with a high ceiling, and humongous wooden planks in uniform sizes leaning across the breadth of a wall. Work benches, clamps attached to them, a wonderful display of tools hanging like a piece of art, tape measures, pliers, files, knives, chisels and mallets. And on the other side, all the safety stuff - goggles, ear defenders, masks. Machines were dotted around the perimeter of the room, one for drilling, another for sanding, and several different saws for different uses. The air smelt of hot wood and had an orange tint to it.

I then remembered when I was last in a room like this - during Design Technology at school. Which was renamed a less inspiring ‘Resistant Materials’. In that room we were hit by natural light from all angles, and I remember it always being cloudy. So a bluey room. If I could do college again, I would take that subject in a heartbeat.

So to be in this orange room felt like my second chance. This is what the volunteer sign was talking about? Woah.

And after what felt like a flash, but was actually a few months, the workshop was gone. It operated under a charity, but also a business, and in this case, it was unforgiving. I learnt so many things at that place. I won't forget those scorching hot days when the heat of the machines made it ever hotter. Walking bigger steps than usual because my steel cap boots were a couple sizes too big. Being paired with a fellow volunteer from a different walk of life to make something together. The workshop manager, giant, tattooed, shouting TEAAAA TIMEEEEE at the top of his lungs.

It was such a sensory experience, feeling the wood, the sound of the saw cutting through it, the sight of transformation after treating, joining or restoring, observed by the maker.

Having something snatched away from me when I really wanted it felt strangely good. I haven’t had enough of the thrill woodworking gave me. It’s up to me, the maker, what I choose to do with that feeling. And it’s up to you, the maker, to choose what you do too.