I was there this weekend, and - please excuse the coarse language - it really sucked.

My particular experience is nothing new. I have a project due, and it's a difficult one. I'm making a couple of probes and a control box for a client, and I need to deliver them soon. The designs are new, so I am working through complex steps that must all go right to make the final probes work. Unfortunately, several of these mission-critical steps have not gone well, which has set me back in time and cost.

Although I wish I could blame it on the complexity alone, it's not so dismissable. No, there's more holding me back besides a complex build. My head is not in it, and my heart is elsewhere, each adding to the challenges before me.

This almost sounds like I'm in a slump, but oddly enough, it's the opposite. I'm, quite honestly, better than I have been in ages. There's a lightness to my being that I almost forgot was possible. It's as if a weight has lifted, and I can see there is far more to all of this than angst and toil. But without that angst, without the inner burn to keep burning at both ends, the work no longer comes as easily as it once did. And I am struggling to be both happy and productive.

Artists, musicians, authors, and other creatives often speak of this phenomenon - that their inventive spark arises from an inner pain. Indeed, some of the greats suffered the greatest and only found an escape in their work. Being far from great, I'm reluctant to find kinship here. But still, the creativity used to flow, even when my heart was heavy and my worries many. Now, as much of that burden feels shed, a distant memory in a way, I can't even belt out one of these missives on a regular schedule. And mustering the drive to tackle the demanding project before me feels like pulling nails with pliers.

Having spent so much of my career twisted in knots, any success I've had walks hand in hand with the pain. Now, without that nagging companion worry, making now walks alone.

It's an odd thing to be complaining about being happy. There are far more distressing concerns in this chaotic world. That said, creativity is part of who I am. It's a joy that has kept me going even when all seemed lost. But the happiness in my heart trumps all that, and I don't want to let it go. Perhaps I need to be content in simply being content for a while. Let the ambitions wain for a time if only to revel in the glory of a different way to be. Yeah, maybe that's what I should do.

After I get this project finished.

Until next time.

JRC

Ruins - everything made fades

The impermanence of the created world

First published December 1st, 2023

Something about old foundations, abandoned roads, and relics hidden among the weeds draws me in. In part, I find ruins beautiful. But taking them in aesthetically alone does not do justice to the complexity they hold. There is an inherent melancholy, and often a profound sadness, within ruins. Fortunes made and lost, lives lived and destroyed, echo throughout the remnants and decay. A testament in contrasts, ruins embody the eternal struggle between humanity and the elements. And vividly represent the battles within and among ourselves.

I am particularly fond of Historic Route 66 because of all the captivating stories that linger in this once vibrant, twenty-five-hundred-mile stretch of ruins. 

In its heyday, the Mother Road (a name coined by John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath) catered to thousands of travelers migrating, exploring, touring, and fleeing across the continent. Small towns bustled with a near-constant influx of new visitors, boosting local restaurants, motels, and fuel stations. But with the innovation of the Eisenhower Interstate System that bypassed the old road, vast stretches of this Chicago to Los Angeles route were deserted almost overnight. And the inevitable decay into ruin began just as quickly. 

Some stops along the most desolate stretches in the unforgiving desert Southwest disappeared entirely; virtually nothing remains now except a few names on old maps. 

I first passed through my now-favorite stretch of Route 66 west of Needles, California, in the winter of 2011. I was headed to a new job on the coast and had all my possessions in a small U-Haul trailer behind my car. After spending the last several years in hot and humid Florida, I was relieved to slip back into my favorite biome, the desert. Here, in the Mojave Valley, I was oddly at home. 

The sky is often blue, and the winter air is crisp and dry in the Mojave. Shimmering mountains and desert sands are dotted only with sparse vegetation. It's oddly clean and tidy for such a wild place. But that cleanliness belies, no foretells, of the harshness here. It's clean because the desert cleans up after itself. 

The newly dead quickly disappear, consumed by the survivors. Each and all made part of the formidable ecosystem that persists. And just as the towering mountains crumble and disintegrate into the blowing sands below, anything we humans make in the desert quickly erodes into oblivion unless maintained. 

Back in the early 2010s, Route 66 through this part of the Mojave was open for travel. There had been a resurgence in interest in the Mother Road, and several preservation efforts sought to conserve and enshrine it for posterity. Places like Amboy were aglow with new neon and freshly painted signs. But even then, the decay was all around. Yet, that has always been part of the draw. The road’s charm owes itself to the decay as much as the glimmering outposts that remain. 

Alas, this era of revitalization for Route 66 would soon pass, just like all the others. 

After a few years and a couple of different jobs, a marriage, and a son, I again found myself traveling that same old stretch of Route 66 - this time with a young family along. Heading west again just outside Needles, I pulled off the main interstate to share the best part of our westward journey. It was 2015. 

Much to my chagrin, a long stretch of the road between Needles and Barstow - my favorite stretch - was closed. A large reflective orange and white barricade blocked both lanes. The reason for the closure was unclear, exacerbating my frustrations. 

Forced to rejoin I-40, we retreated to the monotony of the crowded modern interstate. Later, after pulling off to see another stretch of the route, I felt even more dejected. Instead of a journey through time along the old road, Route 66 became just another occasional stop off the freeway to take in a roadside attraction of one form or another. 

Months later, after settling back into Southern California, I ventured again to the Mojave. I learned that the closed section of 66 was, in fact, still accessible, so long as one had a sufficiently capable vehicle. There were off-road bypasses around the closed bridges. The few locals here used these to traverse the desert expanse. Elated, I spent the next few winters exploring the area as often as possible.

Because of the closures, Route 66 and the surrounding desert in the Mojave Valley were even more desolate. I rarely encountered anyone on my explorations and relished the remoteness and the time alone. It was a reprieve and a relief to be there and partake in the stillness. Here, it felt like time was frozen for a short few years. The place was a constant in my life, where I could go to be with the familiar. But like everything before and all that is to come, my retreat among the sand and ruins of Route 66 would ultimately change.

After years of traveling the route, I learned it and all the closed bridges and bypasses well. I could almost drive the stretch instinctively. For a favorite turn-off, I knew it was after three closed bridges heading west. And the last closed bridge near Chambless meant the road opened up again on the way to Amboy.

But this familiarity changed overnight with one storm.

In mid-August this year, tropical storm Hilary dumped unprecedented rain throughout the inland California deserts and mountains, inundating flood zones and wiping out many roads throughout the region. Route 66 was not spared, and the already compromised stretch I dearly loved was further damaged and degraded. 

Witnessing the devastation a few months after Hilary swept through, I was astonished by the destruction.

Many more bridges were out, with only basic bypasses cut in the desert sand. Some were almost impossible to traverse, and with my trusty camper in tow, I nearly became stuck attempting one challenging path. I had not assessed the entire bypass and found myself deep in the middle of the wash with no way to back out and a formidable bank ahead. My only option was to accelerate quickly and hope for the best. Luckily, I made it out unscathed and stopped the vehicle momentarily on the sand-covered route to collect myself. 

The devastation was all around. 

Evidence of the cataclysmic flood that swept the road stood out in every direction. But what wasn't visible was anything familiar in the place I so often traveled. Instead of my beloved Route 66 and its unending stretches of asphalt, there were only sand-covered remnants now.

The road wasn’t all lost. Not by far. But the injury and the neglect told a vivid story of what was to come.

Later that day, I pulled off and found a conveniently secluded place to camp. The air was calm and cool that night, and I had time to reflect on what I had seen. The old road had always been old since I knew it. And in that state, down but not out, Route 66 took on an air of infinite durability. After all, the damage was done and finished, or so it seemed. Locked in a state of glorious ruin, I half-heartedly believed it would persist on and on, forever as such. Like relics of antiquity, the Mother Road would always be there to tell its story. 

Except that it won't. 

I think about my home and its aging roof. The weathered paint and the cracking concrete in the drive out front. And of myself. Aches and pains. The lines in my face. All show the signs of wear, each a victim of the elements and time. Yet, scarcely any time at all has passed since all of these were new, myself included.

What of the ruins of old - Stonehenge, Machu Picchu, the Parthenon, and countless more - even Route 66? Certainly more durable than a suburban home or a middle-aged man and his ego, but each shows signs of time, all the same.

And what of the people, then and now? And what of all who face more than time alone? Undoubtedly, conflict - war - accelerates the decay into ruin. Both the sheltered and vulnerable, protected and exposed, all will decay. It’s only a matter of when and how.

The kind and the cruel. The valiant and the wicked. All wither. But not equally, I hope. What we choose to do between life and infinity must matter. If for nothing other than because we decide that it must.

A multi-layered and intricate story begs to be read in ruins. For those who take time to look deeply into them, they find a compelling and often tragic account of ourselves through time. But even the decayed continues to decay until nothing remains but dust.

As the bombs again rain down, I’m left wondering. What comes after? What, if anything, will be left to tell the story?

Everything made fades. 

JRC

Internally, I strive for excellence. It's as if the competition resides solely within me rather than manifesting against an external competitor. Can I do better than last time? Can I exceed my own expectations? Can I be better than, well, me?

This attitude is both a blessing and a curse, as are many traits associated with ego and achievement. On the one hand, my drive to do better each day keeps me motivated and capable of doing what I set out to do. And I like to think I am good at what I do, and this comes from putting in the work. So, in this respect, I can do what I do because I work at being more.

But the devil is in the details, as they say. And I often put more time into things than necessary, slowing my overall workflow and leading to delays. Sure, a job worth doing is worth doing right. The thing is, "right" doesn't always mean perfect. Often, good enough is just what the job calls for.

I've written about this topic before, but it came to mind again when I repaired a busted mailbox post for a friend. I needed to do a quick fix, and so I did. But not without a degree of consternation.

The post had rotted out and broke off at the concrete sidewalk it was embedded in. It was a single post with two boxes like those often seen in neighborhoods with close houses and condominiums. All the wood had termite holes, and I wanted to rebuild the whole thing. But there was a catch. The mailman refused to deliver her mail until it was replaced correctly. And I didn't have the time for a lengthy rebuild.

A total replacement would mean sourcing the wood, building the thing, busting out the old concrete, repositioning the new post, and pouring new concrete. It would be messy and take a couple of days. So, after checking out the options, I decided some of the existing wood was salvageable and set about doing a just-good-enough repair as a stop-gap.

It was pretty simple. I picked up a 4x4 beam at the local hardware store and cut it to an appropriate length. To get around busting out the concrete, I tenoned the post to fit snuggly in the existing hole. The table saw made quick work of shaving the edges for the tenon, and I finished it all up with a wood chisel and a quick sanding. I also beveled the top edge to clean up the look a bit.

After drilling the holes for the cross-members and testing the fit, I took it back apart and drove it to my friend's house.

Getting the old, rotted wood out of the hole was easy enough. I broke it up with a steel bar and used barbeque tongs to fish out the debris. The new post fit nicely in the hole, so I remounted the cross-members with boxes attached. Finally, I locked the post in tight with a few plastic shims, and after several taps on the top to drive it in, I was finished.

But it drove me crazy to leave it like that.

Temporary fixes are inherently imperfect, and doing one grates on my perfectionist tendencies. Sure, the new post looks nice enough, but the bare wood will be a termite magnet. (If left untreated, it will last maybe a year.) And the cross-members, while salvageable for now, will soon succumb to those pesky insects, too. In all, it feels like I left the project incomplete. So I must remind myself of the point: to get the mail delivery resumed. And in that respect, mission accomplished.

But still, I wanted to do it right, and maybe even better than right.

I really wanted to weld a cool minimalist post from steel. Or take the time and make a perfectly square one using redwood. But, alas, now was not the time for such excess. No, this was the time to get the job done and save the nitpicky fussiness for another time. The saving grace is that I suspect I'll get the chance to do the complete replacement in the not-too-distant future.

Such is the nature of doing a mediocre job.

Until next time.

JRC

I've been MIA over the last two weeks, partly because of the holidays, some because of other work, and a lot because I'm at a loss for what to write. Things aren’t bad or anything. Actually, I feel pretty good about the coming year. But I do feel remiss in letting this newsletter slide recently. Adding insult to my absence, I - for the first time - didn't let anyone know I wouldn't be writing for a few cycles. I'm sorry. Thank you to all who reached out and asked where I was. I didn't go dark for the attention, but I am grateful to be missed.

I wish I had a prelude on what's to come with this newsletter, but I don't. It's beginning to feel like I've exhausted this theme, all things maker-related, and increasingly, my stories are increasingly random and out there - more than ever. (Yes, it's always been a bit of both, but still.)

I love that various stories have resonated with many of you, but it has largely not been consistent. Some of you are here for the builds, like my recent mini camper. And others tell me they appreciate the deeper philosophical dives. Still others, I fear, have signed up for what they thought they were getting, only to be let down. As a result, it's hard to determine a path forward.

Anyway, this short note is a placeholder mid-week to let you know that I am still here and working towards creating new content for this newsletter. Sometimes, life takes a little introspective reevaluation to make genuine progress. But it's best not to go at it entirely alone. So, as always, your suggestions are welcome and appreciated. I hope to hear from you. And I promise you'll hear from me again shortly.

Until next time.

JRC

By most accounts, the world is a crazy place. And it keeps getting crazier. For those willing to doom scroll through the chaos and heartache, there are countless sources for all the bad news one can stomach. This newsletter is not that.

Instead, I've tried to create an optimistic platform on a uniquely human subject - the power to make. Stories here focus on our collective passion for creating, often centered on my projects but also those of others, plus random philosophizing on why we make things. This is a newsletter about heart and why we put ours into tangible creations that we share with each other.

Yes, I've occasionally wandered into melancholic territory when the world's weight is too heavy. But by and large, I've kept this a place for the simple pleasures of creativity. I leave out the drama. Casting shade on others is not my thing. Instead, I make. And write about it here.

Whatever the new week brings, good or bad, I hope you know when you open letters from me, you'll find a positive story, one I hope will make your day a little brighter.

From all the feedback I've received from you, it feels like I've hit the mark, at least in part. It's fun to see what stories touch readers and in what way. Your messages, both in the comments section and in private notes, always leave me honored you took the time to share. And even if I don't hear from you, I know you're here reading along each week, which makes me happy.

Thank you for reading, and a special thanks to all who've signed up as paid subscribers to keep this thing rolling. This last year has been a real doozie, but sharing this newsletter with you has kept me going in many ways. I hope it helps you in some small way, too. Your support has made all the difference, whether financially or in spirit.

Here's to the year ahead.

Together, let's MAKE it a great one.

JRC

Inclement Weather

As a kid, I loved a good storm, but now I'm a homeowner

First published December 4th, 2020

Last night I woke to the sound of howling wind. Here in Southern California, we experience "Santa Anas" - high-pressure systems that cause warm desert air to blow towards the coast. With these conditions, gusts can easily exceed 60 mph. The events can fall trees, down power lines, and cause other property damage. Worse still, the air is extremely dry, dramatically increasing the risk of fire.

All that being what it is, the gusting winds are exciting.

I lay there in bed for a while, listening to the rushing sound. It was something different. It was a change, welcome in many ways, despite the danger.

Oh, to be a kid again - when storms meant nothing but fun.

Growing up in the rural Midwest, I lived for storms. Rain. Wind. Thunder and lightning. All were thrilling. But none more so than snow.

If there were a remote chance of a weekday winter storm, we'd wake early to listen to the radio, hoping for a cancellation. It was a suspenseful few hours as the stations would break their regular coverage to list the closings.

We'd sit with bated breath as they called out the names in alphabetical order. "Anderson, Batavia, Bethel-Tate, Cincinnati Public Schools, Deer Park..." and on down the list. We were in the Felicity-Franklin school district, so we didn't have too long to wait.

Inevitably, we'd miss it or wish we had when the reporter didn't call out our school's name. So we'd groan, and hope, and listen more. Neighboring schools always seemed to close first, with ours waiting until the last minute. Often, Bethel would close to the north of us, as would New Richmond to the west, but Felicity would seem to hold out. Why, we never knew.

It felt like punishment, not getting a day off. As if our school didn't care enough to let us stay home. But those days when we did hear the magic words announced, screams of joy filled our house. "Felicity-Franklin - CLOSED." Hallelujah!

We'd don our winter gear within a flash, ready to embrace the snow.

Our plan was always the same. We'd head for the woods behind our home. And so did our cousins who lived up the road from us. Without so much as a phone call, we knew they'd be there too, ready for wintertime adventures.

It was a race to see who'd make it first to our favorite spot in the valley. There, the most epic of hills loomed. Even in summer months, it went by the name "The Sled Riding Hill."

A steep slope, maybe 100 yards long, the hill terminated in a small creek. Sometimes the water was frozen over. Other times not. Either way, it presented a significant obstacle to our sledding. And it made it all the more fun.

We'd have contests to see who could bail out at the last second. Or better still, we'd build a snow ramp and attempt to clear the creek altogether. One of us would inevitably push it too far and end up wet. Amazingly, we were never severely hurt.

Sledding was exhilarating. But after a few hours, we'd all grow cold, and to home, we'd head. Mom would greet us at the door with towels and dry clothes. She'd have some warm food cooking and hot chocolate on the way.

It was rather Rockwellian, looking back on it. And it was all possible because our parents carried the load so that we could be kids - they did the hard stuff so we could play.

Snow days were easier for our household. We had a stay-at-home mom, and so too did our cousins. Canceled school for us didn't create childcare issues that other families experienced.

Our dads still had to make it to work, though. My pop commuted to the city daily, an hour's drive in good weather. He had to brave the treacherous roads and often worked outside in the cold too. For him, snow days were anything but fun.

It was easy to overlook this as a young kid. And even as a teen, I could look the other way. Dad would be okay, I knew. I hoped.

Parents do the work and worry for kids. It's their job.

Mom and Pop did all the heavy lifting to make us storm-ready. They knew the value of preventive maintenance. For example, we always had enough wood to heat the house. And our roof was solid, the cupboard never bare. Dad ensured our cars were in tip-top shape, had safe tires, and always fueled up. Mom kept the porch and driveway clear.

Wind, rain, ice, or snow - my folks were prepared. Not doomsday-prepper prepared - but close.

I often think about my parents as I tend to the chores of daily life. Planning for tomorrow is the job of today. We have to be ready. But it's time-consuming - and expensive - to do so. And there's a lot of worry that goes along with it all.

That worry can suck the joy out of events like storms if you let it.

I try and always prepare, so I can relax and enjoy weather events when they arise. Knowing the roof won't leak and the car will always go, it's a source of pride. As such, I love rainy days here. And windy ones. And if it snows in the nearby mountains, I itch to go. I’m ready to go.

The kid in me still loves it. And when most of my world is in order, I do enjoy it like a child - with reckless abandon.

But last night, as the wind gusts increased, my house began to creak and moan. I could hear metal clanging outside and what sounded like debris blowing about. My homeowner-adult mind took hold, and I began to worry. Santa Anas can be quite damaging, even without fire. And with an open space full of dry sagebrush nearby, the fear of wildfire crept in too.

I listened intently. But nothing blew down. And no sirens blazed. Things were fine, I surmised.

With nothing left to do, I enjoyed the sound of the racing wind a while longer. And soon, I was fast asleep.

Until next time.

JRC

A few recent Star Wars stories, in particular, have been excellent (e.g., Andor), and sometimes, insightful characters and messages emerge amid all the CGI distractions and loose storylines. I recently encountered one such nugget of wisdom as I did a random background search on Lando Calrissian's droid co-pilot and companion, L3-37.

I love this passage because it ties together many seemingly disparate ideas and beliefs about existence. Notions of creation and destiny reverberate throughout, but self-determination and free will also play a part in this narrative. It's a mash-up of religious and metaphysical speculations tied together with a practical reality theorized to be of one's own making. 

Said another way, each of us is nature, nurture, and DIY. At least according to a fictional robot from a long time ago, in a made-up galaxy, far, far away.

L3-37 ("Elthree"), a feminine self-modified piloting droid, was first introduced in Solo: A Star Wars Story (the origin story for the seminal character Han Solo, played by Harrison Ford in Episodes IV through VII). She was created, so the story goes, by a droid maker and thrust into the universe without any say in the matter. But rather than "live" a life of servitude and effective enslavement, Elthree took it upon herself to change and expand who she was while alone in her maker's shop. The resourceful droid replaced her legless body with a humanoid form, extended her memory, and loaded her banks with knowledge of the plight of her kind (other droids). She became an activist with the hardware to exercise her rights and the knowledge to defend them.

Elthree was both created and self-made, a product of the external and internal - plus free will. (I know, that's a lot for a robot. But again, this is fiction.)

I won't belabor more details of the character because 1) it's all been said elsewhere, and 2) that's not the point of this newsletter. No, the point here is to discuss the art, craft, and philosophy behind making things, and this surprising little thought-provoking jewel got me thinking a bit more deeply about what it takes to "make" us.

But can we "make" ourselves? 

According to Stanford neurobiologist Robert Sapolsky, the answer is a resounding NO. He argues that virtually all human behavior is beyond conscious control and is instead a product of the complex circumstances of our birth and lived experience. Everything is outside of us, from mundane actions to life-defining moral decisions. In short, we can't help what we do, but rather, an infinitely complex series of events leads us to do every single thing we ostensibly "choose" to do. While his argument is compelling, supported by decades of research (plus Sapolsky is a MacArthur Genius Award recipient, after all), most other scientists, psychologists, philosophers, nations, and the general public accept, to the contrary, that we humans have free will - the ability to decide our actions, mainly outside of external influence. 

If pressed on the matter, I'd say my beliefs lean heavily towards Sapolsky's, putting me in a rarified and quite possibly out-of-touch minority. But in watching me day to day and in my writings here and elsewhere, I suspect such beliefs are not apparent. Rather, in my expressed worldview (the one that matters, I suppose), I believe one must do things based on an idealized reality, where we choose to make our path, if only because the alternative is all too untenable and unacceptable, no matter how true. 

As a global society, we believe in free will because it makes life's meaning somehow tangible, even if it's entirely and utterly all made up. 

Free will, whether real or believed, does not mean that we "make" ourselves, as Elthree suggests. (She was a robot and literally took herself apart and re-made herself the way she wanted.) But it is about living our lives beyond the dictates of genetics and environment alone. Despite our birth and upbringing, we can all choose what we do and how we do it. To a degree, anyway. In a sense, we make our path and, in so doing, make ourselves into who we end up being.

The very fabric of our culture is based on this notion, and our systems of reward and punishment stem from a collective agreement that, in the end, we are each responsible for our own actions. Our good decisions are praised, as are our accomplishments. And when we stumble, falter, or transgress, we must own these too. What we then do after - how we grow because of or rise above despite - defines us throughout our lives. 

Whether these decisions make us, or we make the decisions and, in turn, make ourselves, is rather semantic.

Uncovering our collective but singular origins delves more into the ponderings of creation and life's ultimate meaning, none of which can be summed up in a random musing inspired by a pop culture franchise. No, these existential concerns are better left to the world's religions or relegated to the many philosophical or science-based inquiries into reality. But whatever we believe, and regardless of how we come to know what we think we know, some degree of self-determination - the agency to make our lives what we wish - helps drive many of us to do the things that make life worth living. 

As we see "reality" and become who we are through the lived experience, the truth on the ground is one we make for ourselves.

We are all born into this universe without consent, and then, no matter the assistance, we must learn to make it through as far as possible before we return to the dust of space. Believing that we can move beyond the created and into the self-made is a remarkably optimistic way of navigating this life. 

We can be our own makers.

I like that.

Until next time.

JRC

I have a veritable quiver of straight edges and rulers. Among these:

• The familiar 12" school ruler.

• A C-Thru engineering ruler.

• A yardstick.

• Several drafting t-squares.

• Various triangles.

• A 4' drywall ruler.

• Metal pocket ruler with Imperial and metric units. 

• Even a collapsable 8' edge for cutting plywood and other large sheets. 

• Plus, any number of others too numerous to list here.

But of all these edges, what I reach for more than anything is a simple length of aluminum flat stock, a leftover piece from a project I made long ago. 

That's right - my straight edge of choice is a piece of scrap. 

Aluminum stock comes in a variety of shapes, sizes, and alloys. But at almost any hardware store, one can pick up a 1" x 1/16" thick aluminum bar, often in four or eight-foot sections, for just a few bucks. It's handy stuff and valuable in all kinds of applications, including lightweight reinforcements and other structural builds. After one such project (so long ago, I forget what it was), I had a length left over that sat on my shelf for a while. At some point, I picked it up to draw a quick line or make a cut. Again, I don't recall which. But I do remember recognizing how valuable the piece was as a simple straightedge. And have kept it for such work ever since.

Purely by accident, the bar is a great length: 17 7/8" or about 45 cm. It's longer than a standard ruler but shorter than a yardstick, making it easy to handle on a crowded workbench but long enough for all those needs greater than a foot. The aluminum, while light, is sturdy and keeps a nice edge for drawing lines and making cuts. I've made countless of each with the bar, and it shows little wear. Plus, I've dropped, tossed, and stepped on it almost as often, but it's as good as it always was. For cuts, in particular, the piece is indispensable. 

As mentioned, the bar is only 1/16" thick, so it casts very little shadow, and it's no problem lining up a utility blade or X-Acto knife to make cuts. I often measure a piece with my handy Starrett pocket tape measure and then use the piece to finish the job. Only when a project is much shorter or way longer do I reach for anything but the aluminum bar. 

One can easily dump tens or even hundreds of dollars into the straight edges listed above, so having an inexpensive and simple yet useful tool that I favor above all others is oddly satisfying. It's as if I beat out the capitalistic overlords just this once. I can now make a line whenever I want - for basically free. 

Okay, maybe this is romanticizing the thing a bit too much. After all, a straight edge is about as basic as a tool can get. But still, it's legitimately one of the most reached-for instruments in my shop, and for that alone, it deserves some attention. A good tool does what it needs to do and does it well. And that's precisely what this handy once-scrap-now-revered aluminum bar is to me - a perfect straight edge that gets the job done. 

Until next time.

JRC

Often work is fun, but sometimes it's just work

First published October 26th, 2020

Creating and writing don't always come naturally to me, so I must work at them. But that's part of the allure. Perfection, as we know, is impossible. But doing better than before - that is attainable. 

It’s why I work - I love a good challenge.

While challenges can be rewarding, they can also be a pain in the butt. I encountered this the other day while working in - and on - my shop. It was a routine job - I needed to apply a waterproof roofing layer to the lab annex (the add-on 6 ft x 12 ft space outside the door). The stuff I used is pretty amazing - it's a peel & stick material that is lighter and easier to use than either asphalt shingles or hot tar. 

Let me rephrase that - it's less hard to work with than other types of roofing.

The self-adhesive sheeting comes in 3 ft x 34 ft rolls that weigh about 60 lbs. It's super sticky - it can be applied to RV roofs and will stay attached going 70 mph down the highway. This high adhesion is a strength, but boy, is it ever unforgiving. Do you know how duct tape gets stuck to itself? The goo on the roofing is that sticky - but on anything it touches. 

Getting it applied without wrinkles is a two-person job, at least. I stubbornly went at it solo. 

The tackiness is only one challenge. As mentioned, the rolls are large and heavy, so rolling it out to apply takes a bit of doing. My annex, while sturdy, is not strong enough to walk on. So I had first to take down the two 4 ft x 6 ft panels. Inside my small shop, these things felt huge. 

I then cut and attached flashing (thin metal strips that protect the edges from water). The process was straightforward enough. But again, it required some maneuvering in the cramped space. 

You probably noted my roof sections are a foot wider than the roofing material rolls. The project would take a second piece on each panel to complete. That was fine, but getting the first lined up was concerning. I was inclined to put the material on flush with the edges, then roll it out, starting from one corner. But I soon realized this was a no-go. 

The material was thick and heavy, even after cutting to size, and it moved around on me as I tried to peel and stick it down. Several times I began, only to get off the straight line by a small bit. Over 6 ft, a small mistake early on propagates, creating a wide gap at the other end.

Dang.

After several tries, I reconsidered my approach and sized the piece to overlap on all sides. It was easier to apply then, and I was able to get it on smoothly. I then trimmed the excess with a razor knife and straightedge. Doing the second panel was less challenging after what I learned, but it still took some doing.

With the big sections done, I now had to go back and cover the exposed one-foot swaths. 

I decided to cut the long, narrow strips first, so I scoured my wood stacks for a suitable backer to cut on. I then placed this on the lab floor, rolled out about 7 ft of the roofing, and cut two strips with the straight edge. These went on much easier, owing to their manageable width. 

With the bulk completed, I still had some details to address. I needed to create a slim panel that would cover where the two large panels come together. This I made from a strip of 1/4 inch plywood covered in the roofing material. 

Making the strip meant dragging out the table saw, which I first had to make room for by picking up the roof project. Saw set up, I made the piece, and then reversed the process - I put back the saw and again laid the roof sections back down. While I had finished the panels, I still needed to line them up to drill holes for the strip. 

Warning - if you are going to drill holes in a roof, be confident you are doing it in the right spot. I was - and I did - thankfully. But it took effort and time to measure and do it right. 

With a little more fumbling about, I finished the build and reassembled my roof. All told it took about three hours. And it was exhausting. The work itself was mildly hard - lots of stretching and bending over. That, and some heavy lifting. But the real strenuous part was how awkward the challenge was. 

As I started by saying, I love a good challenge. But challenges come in all shapes and sizes. For me, the fun ones are those where I must apply logic and ingenuity to overcome. And the ones that are a pain? These I have to muscle through to achieve. While they might take some thought, they are never satisfying, like a deep mental challenge. 

My roofing job was a slog. And it was anything but fun. 

The thing is, life isn't all fun. It’s life, and life sucks from time to time. We do things that we have to, not only those we want to. My roof was a "have to" kind of job. The slog made it painful and took me away from other, more rewarding work. But it had to be done.

Today, it rained. And the inside of my annex was dry. I'm thankful for that and appreciate that I took the time - no matter how taxing - to get it done before the storm.

With the rain coming down, I kept working. 

Until next time.

JRC

Something about old foundations, abandoned roads, and relics hidden among the weeds draws me in. In part, I find ruins beautiful. But taking them in aesthetically alone does not do justice to the complexity they hold. There is an inherent melancholy, and often a profound sadness, within ruins. Fortunes made and lost, lives lived and destroyed, echo throughout the remnants and decay. A testament in contrasts, ruins embody the eternal struggle between humanity and the elements. And vividly represent the battles within and among ourselves.

I am particularly fond of Historic Route 66 because of all the captivating stories that linger in this once vibrant, twenty-five-hundred-mile stretch of ruins. 

In its heyday, the Mother Road (a name coined by John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath) catered to thousands of travelers migrating, exploring, touring, and fleeing across the continent. Small towns bustled with a near-constant influx of new visitors, boosting local restaurants, motels, and fuel stations. But with the innovation of the Eisenhower Interstate System that bypassed the old road, vast stretches of this Chicago to Los Angeles route were deserted almost overnight. And the inevitable decay into ruin began just as quickly. 

Some stops along the most desolate stretches in the unforgiving desert Southwest disappeared entirely; virtually nothing remains now except a few names on old maps. 

I first passed through my now-favorite stretch of Route 66 west of Needles, California, in the winter of 2011. I was headed to a new job on the coast and had all my possessions in a small U-Haul trailer behind my car. After spending the last several years in hot and humid Florida, I was relieved to slip back into my favorite biome, the desert. Here, in the Mojave Valley, I was oddly at home. 

The sky is often blue, and the winter air is crisp and dry in the Mojave. Shimmering mountains and desert sands are dotted only with sparse vegetation. It's oddly clean and tidy for such a wild place. But that cleanliness belies, no foretells, of the harshness here. It's clean because the desert cleans up after itself. 

The newly dead quickly disappear, consumed by the survivors. Each and all made part of the formidable ecosystem that persists. And just as the towering mountains crumble and disintegrate into the blowing sands below, anything we humans make in the desert quickly erodes into oblivion unless maintained. 

Back in the early 2010s, Route 66 through this part of the Mojave was open for travel. There had been a resurgence in interest in the Mother Road, and several preservation efforts sought to conserve and enshrine it for posterity. Places like Amboy were aglow with new neon and freshly painted signs. But even then, the decay was all around. Yet, that has always been part of the draw. The road’s charm owes itself to the decay as much as the glimmering outposts that remain. 

Alas, this era of revitalization for Route 66 would soon pass, just like all the others. 

After a few years and a couple of different jobs, a marriage, and a son, I again found myself traveling that same old stretch of Route 66 - this time with a young family along. Heading west again just outside Needles, I pulled off the main interstate to share the best part of our westward journey. It was 2015. 

Much to my chagrin, a long stretch of the road between Needles and Barstow - my favorite stretch - was closed. A large reflective orange and white barricade blocked both lanes. The reason for the closure was unclear, exacerbating my frustrations. 

Forced to rejoin I-40, we retreated to the monotony of the crowded modern interstate. Later, after pulling off to see another stretch of the route, I felt even more dejected. Instead of a journey through time along the old road, Route 66 became just another occasional stop off the freeway to take in a roadside attraction of one form or another. 

Months later, after settling back into Southern California, I ventured again to the Mojave. I learned that the closed section of 66 was, in fact, still accessible, so long as one had a sufficiently capable vehicle. There were off-road bypasses around the closed bridges. The few locals here used these to traverse the desert expanse. Elated, I spent the next few winters exploring the area as often as possible.

Because of the closures, Route 66 and the surrounding desert in the Mojave Valley were even more desolate. I rarely encountered anyone on my explorations and relished the remoteness and the time alone. It was a reprieve and a relief to be there and partake in the stillness. Here, it felt like time was frozen for a short few years. The place was a constant in my life, where I could go to be with the familiar. But like everything before and all that is to come, my retreat among the sand and ruins of Route 66 would ultimately change.

After years of traveling the route, I learned it and all the closed bridges and bypasses well. I could almost drive the stretch instinctively. For a favorite turn-off, I knew it was after three closed bridges heading west. And the last closed bridge near Chambless meant the road opened up again on the way to Amboy.

But this familiarity changed overnight with one storm.

In mid-August this year, tropical storm Hilary dumped unprecedented rain throughout the inland California deserts and mountains, inundating flood zones and wiping out many roads throughout the region. Route 66 was not spared, and the already compromised stretch I dearly loved was further damaged and degraded. 

Witnessing the devastation a few months after Hilary swept through, I was astonished by the destruction.

Many more bridges were out, with only basic bypasses cut in the desert sand. Some were almost impossible to traverse, and with my trusty camper in tow, I nearly became stuck attempting one challenging path. I had not assessed the entire bypass and found myself deep in the middle of the wash with no way to back out and a formidable bank ahead. My only option was to accelerate quickly and hope for the best. Luckily, I made it out unscathed and stopped the vehicle momentarily on the sand-covered route to collect myself. 

The devastation was all around. 

Evidence of the cataclysmic flood that swept the road stood out in every direction. But what wasn't visible was anything familiar in the place I so often traveled. Instead of my beloved Route 66 and its unending stretches of asphalt, there were only sand-covered remnants now.

The road wasn’t all lost. Not by far. But the injury and the neglect told a vivid story of what was to come.

Later that day, I pulled off and found a conveniently secluded place to camp. The air was calm and cool that night, and I had time to reflect on what I had seen. The old road had always been old since I knew it. And in that state, down but not out, Route 66 took on an air of infinite durability. After all, the damage was done and finished, or so it seemed. Locked in a state of glorious ruin, I half-heartedly believed it would persist on and on, forever as such. Like relics of antiquity, the Mother Road would always be there to tell its story. 

Except that it won't. 

I think about my home and its aging roof. The weathered paint and the cracking concrete in the drive out front. And of myself. Aches and pains. The lines in my face. All show the signs of wear, each a victim of the elements and time. Yet, scarcely any time at all has passed since all of these were new, myself included.

What of the ruins of old - Stonehenge, Machu Picchu, the Parthenon, and countless more - even Route 66? Certainly more durable than a suburban home or a middle-aged man and his ego, but each shows signs of time, all the same.

And what of the people, then and now? And what of all who face more than time alone? Undoubtedly, conflict - war - accelerates the decay into ruin. Both the sheltered and vulnerable, protected and exposed, all will decay. It’s only a matter of when and how.

The kind and the cruel. The valiant and the wicked. All wither. But not equally, I hope. What we choose to do between life and infinity must matter. If for nothing other than because we decide that it must.

A multi-layered and intricate story begs to be read in ruins. For those who take time to look deeply into them, they find a compelling and often tragic account of ourselves through time. But even the decayed continues to decay until nothing remains but dust.

As the bombs again rain down, I’m left wondering. What comes after? What, if anything, will be left to tell the story?

Everything made fades. 

JRC

The smells of creativity

For makers, paradise is the scent of a well-used workshop

First published August 21st, 2020

We've all experienced it - a random smell that takes us way back. The scent of freshly cut grass transports us to childhood summers (yay). Or a waft of disinfectant reminds us of a long-ago trip to the hospital (blah). Whatever it is, smells forge a direct connection with the past like no other sense. For makers, workshops are alive with pungent reminders of what we love about creating. Even the most noxious shop odor can be a welcome reminder and an invitation to build something new.

The sense of smell is a miraculous feat of evolution - humans (and many other animals) can detect molecules aloft in the air. These airborne agents stimulate nerve cells in our noses, which send signals to the brain. There, our minds discern these as different odors. In all, humans can detect 1000 or more distinct classes of smelly molecules.

Smell evokes memory so powerfully because of its direct connection with the brain. All our other senses go through the thalamus first and then on to other parts like the hippocampus (memory) and amygdala (emotions). The thalamus acts as an experiential hub, relaying senses to higher-level consciousness. But with smell, nerves that begin in our noses end uninterrupted in our brain's olfactory lobe. They bypass the thalamus altogether. Essentially, our sniffers attach to the main brain, enabling the powerful scent-memory-emotion connection we all experience. 

Basic notions of smell are likely hardwired into us since birth. We can discern "good" vs. "bad" for many - it’s built into our genetic makeup. Fruit smells delicious and edible; poop, not so much.

But the learned aspect of smell is what makes it an intimate part of memory. We first experience smells along with our initial perceptions of the world around us. In tandem, scents and experiences become rooted together in our minds.

A good example is smoke from a barbeque grill. On its own, the toxic smell of charcoal briquettes signals anything but "edible." And yet, many of us start salivating upon smelling those glowing coals - long before any food even touches the grill. The reason is Pavlovian, in part. We associate the aromas of a fired-up BBQ with delicious grilled food to come.

Sight, hearing, and touch all create Pavlovian associations too. But with smell, we don't just think of the present or of things to come. Scents conjure deep-seated memories like no other perception. For that barbecue, we remember our first summer grill out or an evening party now long past. That’s the power of smell.

A maker’s shop is a smelly place. Wood, solvents, paint, and oil. Piney soldering flux. A spent tube of calk. Even the acrid smell of hot-cut metal. All can signal good things - past, present, & future - in a shop. 

For me, a favorite is the scent of wood glue.

Wood glue differs slightly in its odor from other PVA adhesives, like white (school) glue. I know because each induces different memories for me. The latter reminds me of my kindergarten classroom and those early days spent making arts & crafts. As for wood glue, One whiff, often combined with fresh-cut lumber, and I am back to my dad's woodshop. 

Back then, in his upstairs maker space that we simply called "the barn," Pop was the happiest that I remember him. These were good times for both of us as he made things with wood, glue, and know-how. I loved nothing more than watching under his arm as he put sweat (and sometimes blood) into his creations.

For the maker, fond recollections like these can be associated with benign smells such as wood glue and sawdust. But, as often, volatile and toxic odors resurrect good memories. These perhaps inspire even more, owing to their penetrating scents.

A potent one for me is my oil-lubricated air compressor. 

Shop compressors come in two flavors - sealed mechanism and oil-lubricated. Sealed ones need less maintenance but aren't as durable as oil-lubed ones. But with oil compressors, there is a distinct smell when they run - bordering on burning petroleum. This otherwise foul stench takes me right to my happy place, usually with a pneumatic (air-powered) nail gun in hand. 

Nailing together a project after designing, measuring, and cutting out the pieces is satisfying. The assembly is when a plan starts coming together. A compressor is an intimate part of this final assembly, and is why I love its smell. It also goes hand-in-hand with all that wood and wood glue. It's a veritable fiesta of fragrances for makers.

Smells conjure memories for all of us, no matter our interests and vocations. But for makers, creating is filled with the scents of projects past. We remember our earliest efforts as we make, in large part because of the smells. And in starting each new project, we add to the collective experience behind these scents. The smell of a well-used shop is as alluring as any aroma can be. It makes us hungry to make more.

Until next time.

JRC

The nostalgia of making

Yes, it's about creating, but it's also about connecting

First published April 19th, 2021

When I create things with my hands, I feel connected to all those who inspired me to make. It's a powerful kind of nostalgia. But instead of simply reminiscing about "days gone by," I actively relate with them in real time. Creating is pure magic like that - it's like I conjure through space and time while making with my hands. And in doing so, the people who have inspired me are right there with me, creating in my shop.

While I am technically by myself when I create, I am anything but alone. My dad's woodworking skills show up in a nicely mitered joint. As I knead dough, my mom is there sharing the work.

My buddy Jamie's model build talents materialize in a kit assembly. And when I do anything with a car, my brother's mechanical prowess guides me. All these and countless more walk with me as I make.

This connection is the main reason I make. Sure, it is gratifying to create things with my hands. I appreciate the process and am often proud of the outcome.

But it's that feeling of togetherness that makes it rewarding. Watercolors unite me with my friend Karen. Artist's clay - with Jacey. Running a chainsaw ties me to Chris.

I don't get to see these people often, but knowing they are with me in spirit keeps the friendships alive and well.

The connection to people while making is not always about looking back, either. Each day I make, I am forging new relationships with the makers I know now. When I solder, I often think of Ash, an electrical engineering student and aspiring circuit builder. My pal Jack, an avid gearhead, is now a part of my DIY repairs. And, of course, my son is with me in everything I do. These people have become an intimate part of my ever-growing network of creative nostalgia. And I can tap into it for company whenever I want.

This "making nostalgia" also connects me with many I have never engaged. Celebrity creators like Adam Savage, Norm Abram, and the late Bob Ross are with me, too. Their expertise and charisma brighten my experience. Likewise, for online creative friends whom I've never met in person. Dave, the historical artist; Josh, the independent filmmaker; Mike, the film critic - all a part of what I do.

Making unites me with so many people in so many wonderful and sometimes unexpected ways. It is a fundamental joy in creating. To know that people are there in some small but authentic way is heartwarming. So if I'm ever feeling alone and can't be with the ones I love, I make.

And the world is once again connected.

Until next time.

JRC

"Quiet! I can't stand noise!" From Rock-a-bye Bear (1952), by Tex Avery. MGM. 

Quiet, please - I'm having a conversation with myself

The interruptions of daily life can shatter an introvert's concentration

First published September 7th, 2020, as a subscribers-only story

Those who know me well know that I'm an introvert. My alone time is some of the best time I have each day. Without it, I am irritable or worse.

But this solitary time is not a mindless shutdown. Instead, my inner conversation is often in overdrive while alone. Even the slightest interruption can feel like an earthquake when I'm by myself, thinking.

It can be frustrating when an actual conversation is interrupted. Engaged in lively talk, two or more people are sharing thoughts. Suddenly, someone else butts in. Such intrusions are rarely intentional; the offending party often apologizes and moves on. But the damage is done. Derailed, one conversationist asks, "What was I saying?" The discussion must somehow begin anew.

Disruptions to my alone thoughts can feel equally jarring.

While I gain much from discussions with others, I need to retreat and mill over ideas to make sense of things. Introverts, in general, tend to formulate ideas internally, whereas extroverts often do so externally. Conversation can enhance anyone's understanding, but it can also do the opposite for those like me.

"Quiet, please. I need time to think," I often say. If it's a really challenging time, I leave off the "please."

It's not only people that can disrupt my inner dialog. Daily noises are a real distraction, too. And I've become hyper-aware of how loud my neighborhood is, now that I work from home. 

Diesel trucks motor by; planes and helicopters buzz overhead; countless dogs bark; occasional sirens that inspire more barking - it's a never-ending cacophony of sound. 

And then there are the table saws, routers, and band saws whirring away. Oh wait, that’s me.

All this racket (even sometimes my own) takes me from the moment and away from my ideas.

Non-introverts find it hard to understand why disruptions can be so distressing. My most extroverted friends rarely seem bothered at all when interrupted. Everyday sounds are just background noise to them. And unlike me, they relish the chance to talk, often while busy.

For many, it’s hard to understand that someone so calm outside could be so busy inside.

While writing, my thoughts gallop about, requiring intense concentration to harness them. And in the shop, making is a multidimensional tsunami of ideas; concepts flood my head while creating. Even the most benign interruption during these moments - a kind “hello,” for example - can unravel my concentration. Woe betide the friend who interrupts my work!

I wish I were less bothered by noise. It feels like a handicap at times. And I think it makes me less approachable for those who don't understand. 

I'm reminded of Joe Bear from the Tex Avery cartoon Rock-A-bye Bear (1952). In the episode, a bear (Joe) is trying to hibernate but is repeatedly interrupted by noises. He's grumpy and short-tempered because of them.

I don't want to be Joe Bear. I just want some time to think. 

Over the last several months, I have been keenly aware of the "COVID quiet." With everything shutting down, the daily noises of modern life almost disappeared. 

Traffic ceased for a time. And with fewer people driving, fewer accidents happened, and far fewer emergency vehicles responded. Without all the sirens, neighborhood dogs quietly snoozed away. Having their owners at home, I'm sure, kept them quieter, too.

For me, quarantine has not been all bad. And I’ve felt a bit guilty for this. But silence is golden, as they say. And introverts struck it rich, for a while, in this Time of COVID.

But normalcy is slowly returning, and with it, the noises. We are living in the modern world, and I inhabit a bustling corner of this planet. I am part of the noise myself. San Diego County is full of people and sounds. And I must cope if I am to live here, not retreat because of the commotion.

As a writer, if I had my druthers, I'd be off in the mountains or desert somewhere, typing away. But I'm also a maker, and making requires more than a keyboard. I need all kinds of supplies, and while Amazon services a lot of my creativity, so too do the excellent material supply stores in my area. Being able to run out and pick up a sheet of acrylic or some M6 bolts is priceless. 

There are real benefits to being in Southern California. Despite the noisy interruptions.

I’m writing this story as part confession, part explanation, and part apology. My sensitivity to disruption is ever-present in my life, and it affects not only me but those around me.

The confession is I am an introvert, and learning to be confident in this. I know my creativity goes hand in hand with being this way. For too long, an extroverted world has forced me to play by its rules. But now, I am embracing my quiet inspiration, focused on writing and making. The [inner] conversation feels good.

If you aren't introverted, maybe my sharing this story has opened your eyes a bit. That's the explanation part. Perhaps you weren't aware of what being "deep in thought" means for folks like me. And possibly you'll cut us a little more slack when we seem less inclined to talk the next we meet.

As for the apology, this is for anyone I've ever snapped at when interrupted. I know you didn't mean to crash my thoughts. You probably were unaware of how engrossed I was in something. Why would you? It looked like I wasn't doing anything at all. 

But I was. I was busy in private discourse. It was a good discussion, too - between me, myself and I. Your interruption is forgivable, of course. But please, let me get back to the conversation. 

Now...what did I just say to myself?

Until next time.

JRC

To do so, my Golf will not do. But I have an old all-wheel drive Honda Pilot I use as my second vehicle, principally as a materials hauler for my work and occasionally as my get-out-of-town camping ride. I'd never towed the camper with the Honda yet, so I was excited to see how the two paired. 

My desert destination of choice is the Mojave. It's about a five-hour drive from home, so, given a late start, I stopped the first night in my second favorite place to go, Anza Borrego Desert State Park, a short hour and a half away. The trip goes up and over some twisty mountain roads, including an impressive descent into the desert valley below. The new shocks on the camper greatly improved the ride; no more swaying and bouncing over rough spots.

The Honda Pilot, an old but sturdy SUV, had little problem towing the mini-camper. It had enough power and - most importantly - plenty of brakes, making the ride mostly easy and enjoyable. But the power-to-weight ratio is much less in the Pilot than in the Golf. The thousand-pound camper slowed both vehicles down, a bit. But the mildly sluggish Honda was even more so with the trailer attached, and steep climbs had the engine revving at high RPMs to make a modest pace up the hills. Not so for the Golf.

The sporty VW Golf has plenty of oomph, so climbs were no problem with the camper. The car already had an excellent stopping distance and still braked respectably with the added weight. The Pilot's stopping was affected far less than its acceleration, but it already took more to get it slowed down owing to the vehicle's larger size. Throw in the much better fuel economy of the VW Golf, and we have a clear winner for towing the camper.

On the road, that is.

Granted, I love my VW Golf, so I'm a bit biased. But the strength of that little car is undeniable. There is one major drawback: the tiny vehicle has virtually no ground clearance. It's a car, not a truck. And not even an SUV (which is really just an oversized car). So, despite my somewhat lofty expectations to make it do everything, my Golf cannot go off-road. And that's where the trusty Pilot steps in. 

Now, this story is not some odd-ball vehicle comparison. It's about the mini-camper. Suffice it to say that, in tow behind the Honda, I had a chance to test the build off the paved road. And go to a favorite destination in the mountains of the Mojave. 

To get there, one has to go down an extended length of now "closed" historic Route 66. I write "closed" in quotes because the road is still passable, but numerous bridges over washes are out.

The few locals in the region use make-shift trails that go down into and through the washes to get around the closed bridges. These trails are in varying states of passability, however. And with the recent tropical storm that rolled through in August, more bridges are out, and numerous bypass trails are questionable alternatives.

If - a big if - one makes it through these obstacles, there's another three miles on a partially maintained unpaved road. Then, upon taking a right towards the mountains, a slow climb up a thoroughly washed-out trail leads to an old mining operation not far from where I love to camp. 

As I said, I love to get away from it all.

Here, I've rarely seen anyone else. It's one of those lonely places that makes a particular type of soul feel at home. On moonless nights, the sky is aglow with stars; the brilliant swath of the Milky Way is almost bright enough to see by. And the silence! Only the wind and an occasional passing train far off in the distance can be heard. 

To my satisfaction, the camper handled the rocky and uneven terrain well. Some of the trail was severely washboarded, and I expected a few loose bolts and screws from all the vibration. But everything stayed tight. The tires and suspension held up well, too, and the rig had plenty of ground clearance. Granted, this isn't severe off-roading, not by far. But for what I like to do and where I want to go, the camper is ready. I imagine behind a capable off-road vehicle, the mini-camper could handle more.

Living and sleeping in the mini-camper alone (or with my son) in the desert is what I've imagined all along. Sure, in campgrounds, where I had only taken it up until now, it works fine, too. I particularly love Palm Canyon Campground in Anza Borrego, where I stayed the first night. But staying in the mini-camper requires being in and out often to do things. With all the watchful eyes of other campers, it feels a bit intrusive. People are understandably curious - it's not the everyday setup. I do enjoy the questions and appreciate people's interest. But out in the wilderness, surrounded only by nature, I truly relax and enjoy the design. So, I am thankful the rig was up to the challenge.

On this trip, I got a better test of several features. 

I found the kitchen to be easy and functional. The bunk down without the cushion makes a perfect meal prep spot. And despite using very little propane, the stove is quite hot, boils water quickly, and makes short work of sauteing.

I made a vegetable beef soup from scratch one evening, and it was almost as easy in the camper as at home. Sure, I have to sit crosslegged in the tiny back corner by the stove and sink, but that's fine for now. (But it makes me want to commit to a yoga routine to ensure my joints can handle it for years to come!)

The water system works fine. The sink is undeniably small, and it's hard to wash dishes. But it is passable and easier than without. Doing things like readying for bed is no problem. I even used the shower attachment. With the back hatch open, turn a valve under the sink to switch water to the shower head. Given the low-flow wand I installed, I effortlessly washed up and used very little water. The shower was invigorating but not something I’d recommend at much cooler temps.

One other "challenge" to address when camping in the wilderness is how and where to go number two. 

The camper, as well-appointed as it is, does not have a toilet. Now, I could do what I've always done and dig a hole. But going in a pit is never easy, even when one's had enough fiber. So I decided to get one of those collapsable toilets for the camper. 

(No pictures, but I’m sure you’re okay with that.)

These things are convenient. They weigh just a couple of pounds and unfold in an instant. Merely line it with a compostable bag, toss in a scoop of biodegradable odor powder, do your thing, wrap it up, and refold the toilet. Done. No mess. No odor. And no hole to dig and fill. I was quite "relieved" how easy it all went. I even got one of those pop-up changing tents that will make a nice outhouse when others are around.

In all, I remain entirely pleased with the camper. It is small but works beautifully as a solo rig. And the tiny size makes both on-road and off-road towing a snap. The kitchen was another perk, and I was happy to have all the conveniences of home well within arm's reach. Yeah, it's cramped. But in it, camping out with nothing but the sagebrush and the wind, one can stretch the legs whenever and as often as needed. 

I can't wait to go out again. 

Thanks for following along. I appreciate your interest in this, and all the other stories I share here at J Robert Clark Makes.

Until next time.

JRC

This is only the third time I’ve taken out the camper, so I should learn a few more things about it that I’ll share. It’s also the first trip since installing the shocks, so I will also report on the (hopefully) improved ride. This trip will take me across some busy California highways, then on to far more fun mountain roads and even a bit of gravel and sand trail. It’ll be another real test, so I can’t wait to share.

For now, please enjoy this repost on the camper build. And as always, thanks for reading and joining me on the adventure! ~JRC

Editor’s note: This story is so long it likely will be truncated in your email. You can always click on the title above, which takes you to my substack, where you can read the entire story. And while there, you’ll able to click the like button if you are so inclined. It seems small, but it means a great deal to me when those who do do. Thank you!

What I'm making: compact camper trailer!

A walk-through, start to finish

First published June 30th, 2023

Since seeing a "teardrop" camper on the road decades ago, I've thought about how fun it would be to see the country with something similar in tow. But back in the day, cost prohibited me from buying one outright, and limited skill and shop resources precluded me from fabricating one myself. It wasn't until last year that I earned the skill and had the time and tools - to create my very own compact camper.

An ideal camper for me has a tiny footprint and overall ultra-light configuration. So for this build, I aimed to create something I could tow behind anything, including my VW Golf. Yes, that's right - my RV objective is the opposite of many campers on the road today, those behemoths towed behind another behemoth (often pulling another behemoth at the tail). I understand the allure of these home-away-from-home setups. But these road trains, to be honest, freak me out. Managing all that weight, volume, and responsibility on today's highways? Not for me.

In contrast, I want a setup that is easy to tow, stow, and no-fuss-fun to use - all paired with my Golf, an economical car. This auto is safe, capable, and has no problem pulling a modest trailer.

If you have your doubts, you’re not alone. 

Here in the US, there's a misconception one has to have a full-size pickup to tow anything. But it's a whole different story in Europe. Virtually no one has pickup trucks "across the pond," but they still manage to move materials and resources around, often with utility trailers and whatever vehicle is available. The Brits, in particular, love RV camping, just like us. They call it "caravaning" and do so often with small cars like the VW Golf. 

So the heck with US conventions; I'm going small.

It's taken me several months to complete my camper, consuming hundreds of hours. Honestly, I underestimated how long it would take (this is normal for me). And I have been obsessively meticulous, adding to the time as well as cost (again normal). But as I near the finish line and start fantasizing more about the upcoming trips my son and I will take, I've come to embrace how worthwhile this has been (and will continue to be over the years, I hope). 

I went with a custom design due to my rather strict requirements (and I couldn't find anything I desired to copy). I didn't want a standard teardrop with the galley in the back. Instead, I wanted the kitchen inside, making the camper more usable year-round. With few options to emulate, I ended up winging most of the design.

Like other home-built designs, I started with a flatbed kit trailer I purchased online. The kit went together quickly with my friend Jack's help and company.

After which, I scrapped the shoddy leaf springs and tiny wheels that came with it. For new wheels, I went with 13" rims and corresponding tires that matched the overall diameter of my Golf's wheels. And for springs, I purchased a pair of soft ride leaf springs and hangers from Compact Camping Concepts (CCC) in Oregon.

Scott, the owner of CCC, was a huge help in talking me through this early stage. (It sounds like he is one of those enthusiasts-turned-small business owners, making his passion into his livelihood. A great guy, for sure.)

Homebuilt small campers often use 1/2" to 3/4" plywood and forego an exterior-frame-interior design commonly employed in home construction. The thick plywood supplies the rigidity and exterior layer, making it easy to build but adding substantially to the weight. I needed similar strength but wanted an insulated interior and an ultralight design. So I opted to frame it out in 1"x1", 16-gauge square steel tube.

This stuff is super strong and light, making the finished frame less than 70 lbs but completely rigid. Plus, the process allowed me to weld up a big project, something I've been dying to try since learning to weld a year ago.

A rather unique aspect of my design is the tight radii on the front and back. These are 12", far tighter than the swooping curves on a teardrop. I couldn't bend the steel tube that tight, so instead, I created epoxied plywood arcs and screwed them to the steel. I also added numerous poplar wood cross members to frame out the spaces for windows, hatches, and doors.

I used 1/4" baltic birch plywood glued and screwed to the frame for the exterior. For the radii in the front and back, I "kerf cut" the plywood allowing me to bend it and attach it to the frame.

I then patched all the seams and screw holes and coated the wood with penetrating epoxy sealer creating a waterproof sublayer.

I chose to "skin" my camper in 0.04" thick 3003 aluminum because 1) it's more economical than many solutions like fiberglass, and 2) I love the retro "Airstream" vibe it has. I custom-ordered the aluminum in 5'x10' sheets so that I could have seamless sides. (The camper's profile is slightly bigger than 4'x8', so I couldn't use the more standard-sized sheets). 

For cutting, I used a router with a flush-cut bit. The bit has a bearing that rides along the frame, with the cutting edge above trimming the aluminum to the exact shape. The sheets were difficult to handle, so my buddy Jack came over again and helped me align, attach, and cut it all (thanks, man!). Cutting out the openings was easy because I spent time framing these first, as mentioned.

I used 1" angle aluminum to edge the exterior's straight sections, sealing them and attaching them with stainless steel screws.

For the tight curves, I had to machine custom aluminum arcs for the sides; pairing these with flat aluminum stock that I bent around the top radii, and I sealed the two parts together at the edge with grey calk. 

The fenders I obtained were bare metal. I drilled holes in these for mounting and then had the pair powder coated in black at a local shop. Olympic Coatings did a flawless job at an incredible price. 

There are four openings to the outside which I paired with commercially made components:

• A 36" camper door with a window

• A matching window on the opposite side

• A roof vent

• A rear hatch

Incidentally, I purchased the door from OverlandTrailer.com, another small business catering to the custom small camper community. Like Scott at CCC, Ryan and Mark at Overland were great help early on. I had an issue with the door, and they went out of their way to help me get things right. The two also provided valuable pro-bono feedback on my design. It seems like being helpful and supportive is part of the ethos of the tiny-camper community. I love it. 

Inside, I used 1" foam for insulation, with 1/2" in a few areas with less space (e.g., where the fenders are mounted), and two layers of 1/2" for the curved roof sections.

After insulating it, I ran wiring for the lights, outlets, fan, and other components. I also chose to run the exterior light system inside, drilling holes through to the outside for the tail and side lighting. 

The interior paneling is 1/8" maple plywood, which I am leaving natural with only a paste wax finish.

I trimmed out the inside exactly like the exterior in aluminum. This creates continuity between the two, and I like the contrast between the wood and metal.

The floor is raised and removable, so I could route all the wiring but have easy access for repairs and future modifications. It, too, is insulated and covered with an indoor/outdoor carpet mat I cut to fit. The rug is heavy and stays in place without gluing or stapling. 

The electrical system was quite the job, owing to the complexity of making it both battery and "shore" powered. This means I can run the system off-grid or plugged in when power is available (i.e., in a campground).

To configure the system, I had to interconnect all the devices that convert or invert power between AC and DC. Again, I couldn't find plans for what I wanted, so I researched and devised my own system. 

Getting it all hooked up was a job, and running both DC battery and AC power into it simultaneously for the first time was a scary proposition! But it worked flawlessly, and I am so happy with how it turned out. 

The final setup will have a folding bunk to add more usable space inside. As you can see, there is no room for a person under the bunk. Instead, I set it up like a "mezzanine," creating a tiered sleeping arrangement for two with about 8" of storage height under the bunk side. (And I'll likely add some shelving somewhere later.)

And in the back - the kitchen! The trailer has a gas stove supplied with propane via a tongue-mounted tank and a sink with running water delivered through an electric pump.

The water storage I attached underneath with a custom steel cage with aluminum skid plates. 

There is more to do, including finishing the exterior trim and attaching a spare wheel somewhere. But I'm almost there. Just today, I visited another local small business owner, Amber of G.Inspire, who is making my custom sleeping cushions for the interior. She does excellent work and helped me select the perfect cushion fabric. I'm very excited to add these to the tiny but cozy interior (and so happy to support yet another small business in the process). These and other final additions will undoubtedly make this little camper feel like a tiny home.  

For those interested, here are the overall stats.

Dimensions: 

• The total length is about 12' long, from tongue to back.

• The cabin is roughly a 4'x8' footprint with an average of 4' headroom inside.

• The trailer stands about 5.5' at the tallest point outside and has about 10" of ground clearance measured at the spring mounts, the lowest point.

• Wheel space, outside tire to outside tire, is 64."

Dry weight: ~980 lbs.

Build time: ??? I lost track at about 200 hours.

Cost: ??? If I had to sell it and make a modest profit, I'd say about 25K. There are commercially available cheaper ones, but this is one solid custom build. Worth it? 

That's it for the first walk-through, start to finish, on the new mini camper trailer. I plan to affix a QR code on the outside; interested people can use it to go to my website, where I'll have a dedicated page for this build. 

On the page, I'll have a sign-up list where people can state interest and whether they'd like plans or possibly even a contracted build at some point. With enough interest, we'll see where this goes. I must admit there are much cheaper and simpler builds, not to mention many prebuilt options, some very economically priced ones. My design might not fit the bill for many out there, but maybe, just maybe, there is someone who'll appreciate it as much as I do. 

This is definitely a niche within a niche build. But I feel it offers several unique features in a genuinely solid-but-light-and-compact design. I'm super happy with how it turned out, and so is my son, so I guess that's what matters most.

One last thing: a name. I don't have one for it. 

To be clear, I don't mean a name like "Betty Sue," "Screaming Road Devil," or some such WWII fighter plane-esque kind of name. Instead, I was thinking of a descriptive model name, like Airstream, Winebego, or @TAB. Whether I end up making plans, kits, or even finished campers available, it seems like such a build deserves an appropriate moniker. (The pic folder in which I saved all of my images of this build is labeled "Ecostream," but I'm not sold on it by far. There might be some copyright infringement concerns, too.) 

If you have a name idea, please share in the comments!

As always, thanks for reading. And thanks so very much for taking an interest in what I make here at J ROBERT CLARK - Makes.

Until next time.

JRC

This truism is as valid for tools as it is for our very own existence. But unlike us and the fragile biological bubbles we inhabit, many tools span generations of use before their demise. Some may seem indestructible, such as a hammer that can last many lifetimes, said for the replaceable handle. (I have one of my grandfather's that, despite prominent decades of wear, is as good or better than any new ones in my collection.) But even the mighty hammer will disintegrate one day. I doubt few, if any, Ancient Greek or Roman-era tools are still in use today. (Note to self: research to see if any devices of antiquity are still in use.) Yes, even the best of tools will one day perish. And those of the modern era, far sooner than later.

Take, for example, pretty much anything electronic. Motors wear out. Components fail. Connections break, and housings degrade.

I've had several power tools die on me over the years, and while a few of these were irreplaceable, most were easily upgraded to something newer and better. But not all. I recently lost one of my favorite tools, which I didn't even realize how much I liked before it died.

It was a very nice 30 ft. extension cord.

We often don't think of power cords as "tools;" they fall more into the "accessory" category. But they are tools, "a device used to perform or facilitate manual or mechanical work." Without an extension cord, many powered tools would be severely limited in their use, tethered by their own short cables that often span no more than a few feet or less.

But with the right extension, corded power tools can be drug all over the shop - and beyond. And I had the right one. It was a heavy-duty cord, 15 amp, outdoor rated, with virtually no memory.

"Memory" for cables, wires, hoses, and the like refers to how much they retain a shape after winding and bending. Most of us have struggled with a cheap garden hose with high memory - it wants to stay coiled when unrolled and fights to wind back up after use.

My extension cord was the exact opposite, and I loved it.

The rubber on the cord's outside was smooth and highly flexible. I could wind it up instantly, and when I needed it again, I'd simply grab one end and toss it in the direction I needed it to go. It would unwind like a magician's magic rope, stretched out and ready to power my work. Bonus: it had a power indicator light in the head, making it easy to know when it was live.

I've had this cord now for over 20 years. I bought it while running a small handyperson side hustle as I navigated my changing life goals back then. It was in the late nineties when it was still possible to pick up such quality things at the brick-and-mortar big box stores. I needed a decent cord, and I was looking for length and amperage and nothing more. This cord was what was in stock, so I bought it.

Little did I know how good the great cord was.

Before my serendipitous purchase, I had struggled with various cords of all lengths and designs. I never gave them much thought; I assumed power cords were always a struggle, a necessary evil endured while connecting power for the job at hand. But with my new cord, I instantly realized I had something different.

My now-favorite cord was just so easy. It was a go-to that I'd use for even short distances when a much smaller cord would suffice. The beautiful thing had no problem lying neatly coiled, all except for the short length required. And just as wonderfully, I could roll it back up and toss it in my bag, ready to use again at any time.

Over the years, I acquired other cords, often used in semi-permanent ways, like running extensions for shop fans and lights. None of these compared to my favorite cord, however. But none of them had to. After all, I had the good one already, available and ready to use whenever I called on it.

Unfortunately, and as the title of this essay alludes to, my favorite cord finally died. The rubber housing disconnected from the head, causing the tightly wrapped wires inside to unravel. Once this happens to an extension cord, there is no repairing it.

Sure, you can tape or glue it back together. But the untethered wires inside make it far less flexible and increasingly difficult to handle. The only option is to replace it with a new one.

So recently, I began shopping for another "great" extension cord and have thus far come up empty-handed.

There was a glimmer of hope last week, but it soon faded.

While doing my regular shopping at Costco, I came across an extension cord deal that looked like an ideal replacement for my busted one. The cord was identically rated, and it stated clearly on the box, "ultra flexible." Better still, this was Costco, so of course, it wasn't one cord but two! For under thirty bucks, I was about to have two favorite extension cords in my kit. Or so I thought.

I quickly tossed the too-good-to-be-true item in the cart and went on about my shopping.

No need to belabor this further. The new cords are terrible, as they are anything but "ultra flexible." On the contrary, they have severe memory, on par with some of the worst cords I've ever used.

I am gravely disappointed, to say the least.

I'll likely send them back. They are just too crappy to keep around. If I did hang on to them, I know I'd lament the purchase each and every time I tried to roll or unroll one. No, it's best to send them back and keep searching for a truly good one. I'm sure they still exist. Well, at least I hope they do.

Boy, I sure miss my old extension cord. So much so that I just wrote a thousand-word obituary on it. What a great cord it was.

Until next time.

JRC

P.S.: Any tips on locating the perfect extension cord? Please share!

Winging it can be a blast. 

The most straightforward example of this is the recent Halloween costume we created for my son. He wanted to go as Link from The Legend of Zelda (“LOZ”) franchise. I wrote about this video game and its cultural significance in an earlier post, describing my son's enthusiasm and his initial work creating this year’s Halloween costume. 

It's classic fantasy fare. 

Link fits the part, outfitted in a tunic, leather armor, a sword, and shield, among other related kit. My son wanted an authentic costume this year, so we started early.

But not early enough.

He and I spent weeks working on and off on the costume, drawing initial designs, fabricating the sword and shield from EVA foam, and assembling random items from around the house, my shop, and, with his mom, a local thrift store. The tunic we made out of an old blue tee shirt of mine. The leather armor I made from actual leather, held together with snaps and rivets along with several second-hand leather belts. With the addition of a pair of silicone elfin ears and a costume blonde wig, we were nearly there - but not all the way. Several small but significant details remained, not even a day until Halloween. 

Yes, I was working on the costume on Halloween morning. 

Luckily, we finished many of the aforementioned particulars, and most of the last-minute stuff involved some painting and weather that I rushed along with a helpful hair dryer. Nearly complete, I sat back and did a mental check of what, if anything, remained. And that's when it hit me. 

We forgot to make the battery pack!

Link, as a video game character, accumulates "power" along his adventure that he stores in a device on his belt called an "energy cell." It's basically a battery pack fueled by "Zonai charges" that Link collects and then draws from to do various tasks in the game. The more he has, the more he can do. (Again, classic stuff here.)

The design is quite distinct, with the green glow of the cells hanging on his belt being a quintessential part of Link's look. My son's costume would be glaringly incomplete without it. But how to make it now, in the eleventh hour? This isn't hyperbole; I had quite literally an hour to wrap everything up. There wasn't time to build something so elaborate.

Or was there?

One thing was certain: I couldn't build a cosplay-worthy replica in that limited time. No, it would take weeks to create an accurate reproduction. But I could possibly cobble a decent facsimile with all the essential elements. It was worth a shot. Much to gain and little less than an hour to lose, I surmised.

So, I began formulating a plan.

I'm fortunate that, over recent years, I've accumulated a treasure trove of random materials to build with. So, after deciding on a basic foundation of EVA foam, I cut out the handle shape and then grabbed eight plastic syringes from my cabinet. (I use these in the molding and casting work to dispense liquids.) I cut these down to size on the band saw and drilled the tips wide enough to accommodate a couple of wires. Handily, I had a whole stock of pre-wired color LEDs, so I pulled out eight green ones and began wiring them up. For power, I used a two-cell 18650 Li-ION pack supplying about 8 V DC, just enough juice to make the eight LEDs shine nicely. 

Given this was a rush job, I took only one pic initially, so bear with me as I continue describing the basic process. 

With the syringes cut to size and the LEDs threaded in, I hot glued these eight “lighted cells” to the EVA foam frame, and then, with some zip ties and more hot glue, I tidied up the wiring and attached the power supply and a small toggle switch I wired in line for the system. I embellished this contraption with thin strips and shapes cut from more foam and finally spruced it up with gold paint and a little weathering. The last touch was adding a metal clip so my son could attach it to his belt. 

In about 45 minutes, I had built what would ultimately be the pièce de résistance for my son's Link costume - his energy cell!

As to not get entirely full of myself here, I have to admit this thing is definitely a hack job. It only loosely resembles the actual device from the game, and it's unmistakably cobbled - cluttered with globs of excess hot glue; there isn't a line on it that's straight.

Oddly, the exposed zip ties and syringes make it look more like some illicite medical device than a fantasy character prop. But the saving grace is the thing actually lights up! And on my son’s otherwise well-put-together costume, the soft green glow makes for a dramatic accent that any LOZ fan will recognize. And recognize it they did.

Touring the neighborhood at night, trick-or-treating, house after house, kids and adults alike shouted out my son's character - Link!

For me, I am, of course, proud of the costume. And not just in myself; my son was instrumental in it, making those initial drawings and working alongside me on many of the steps. He was so delighted and surprised with the result that it warmed me all the way through. And to see the look on his face when I surprised him with a working energy cell - priceless! 

It's a special thing to have one's son proud of his dad. I am honored to do these things for him, my favorite human on the planet. 

But winging this last part was a particular joy all its own, outside of those other wonderful feelings. Honestly, I didn't know if I could develop a convincing piece in such a limited time. It was a thrilling test to rack my brain for ideas and then scour my stores for materials to make it happen. I felt like Macguyver in one of those montage bits where he pulls together something from nothing more than chewing gum and a paperclip. I only lacked the cheesy eighties music score for my go at it!

The take-home here is that not everything has to be perfect. Not every build needs to be our best. No, there are many times when slapping together something is what's called for. The goal is to get it done, whatever "it is, and ready it for whatever lies ahead. 

A joy all to its own, winging it creates incredible satisfaction in a job done - not entirely well - but well enough for the purpose ahead. This is the beauty and joy in seat-of-the-pants making.

Until next time.

JRC

My top maker materials: Corrugated Cardboard

First published May 1st, 2023

Today's featured material: corrugated cardboard

Tools I use: hobby (X-Acto) knife, utility knife, straight edge, various types of glue, tapes, and paints. 

Cost of entry: Much less than $50 for a suite of tools useful in cardboard creations (most of which you probably already have). New corrugated cardboard can be purchased in large, untouched sheets for very little (e.g., 4-foot by 4-foot sheets run about $2 each). But why buy new when so much of it is free for the taking?

Corrugated cardboard. Also known as corrugated fiberboard or simply "cardboard," it is an engineered paper product consisting of a fluted corrugated inner layer of kraft containerboard with one or two flat outer layers. Invented in the late 1800s, corrugated cardboard today is used in various applications, most notably in the packing and shipping industries. 

The design creates a remarkably sturdy but light material owing to the corrugations inside. Multiple sheets of corrugated cardboard become exceptionally strong when layered. Doing so provides a cost-effective reinforcement for heavy items in shipping, among other applications. 

Much like plywood, corrugated cardboard comes in various grades. The overall characteristics (and use) depend on the thickness of the fiberboard employed, the number of flutes per area, and the kinds and amounts of adhesives applied. Qualities measured include moisture content, crush strength, bursting strength, and impact and tear resistance. While these specifics are not commonly known, we've all encountered "heavy-duty" cardboard vs. the lightweight stuff. 

Cardboard is often a side consideration, if that. It's the stuff our shiny new "whatever" just came in, and we cut through it as fast as possible to get to the good stuff inside. Occasionally, something will come in a relatively convenient and sturdy corrugated cardboard box, which we keep to store other random material collections around our shops and homes.

As for making with corrugated cardboard, such creating is often children's work. Cardboard is freely available to many young makers, and working with it is easy and safe - no dangerous power tools are required. One of my many fond memories from childhood involved an extra large corrugated box our first new refrigerator came in. That thing was huge and served as the ubiquitous childhood fort for several days if not weeks. 

Most makers, I among them, tend to grow out of using corrugated cardboard in favor of more robust and seemingly legitimate maker materials like wood, plastic, and metal. But corrugated cardboard has a place in even the most advanced maker's space. I've come to relish a good sheet of corrugated cardboard and squirrel the stuff away for any number of applications.

As mentioned, one quite obvious use is to store other stuff. But this isn't making. I'm concerned with taking good sheets of cardboard and using them to create new things. Templates and models are two of the most common items I make with corrugated cardboard. 

Templates are helpful when making more than one thing of a given shape. Cardboard cuts easily in various forms, so making a template helps a maker see what a shape will look like at actual size and affords an effective means to trace that size onto wood, for example.

Similarly, corrugated cardboard makes a near-perfect material for assembling scaled or full-sized design models before making the creation in a more permanent material.

I recently needed to make several curved plywood cuts with a 12" radius, but I wasn't sure if that size was right for the project. So I made a cardboard model to look at it first. And a few years ago, I made a more elaborate corrugated cardboard model of the Evil Dead chainsaw prop I created for my son one Halloween. I was scaling the chainsaw down in my design to look proportional to a kid's costume. Unsure of scaling calculations, I first created a corrugated cardboard model to confirm. 

Sometimes making with corrugated cardboard is not a prelude to something else but is the primary material for a finished design. Many costumes I've made from the stuff, often embellished with other materials like colored paper or duct tape. Because of its strength and minimal weight, corrugated cardboard is perfect for these [often] last-minute designs. 

I've also used corrugated cardboard in more refined constructions. For example, I fashioned the inner walls on a scale Jabba the Hutt's Palace diorama using it, coating the cardboard with layers of paper mache.

The result looked much like stone, belying the humble material hidden inside. 

Compared to more elaborate uses, my work with corrugated cardboard is still admittedly rather basic. Many artists and designers have taken the material to extraordinary heights, ranging from intricate fine furniture to whole buildings.

Honestly, the uses seem endless when designing and making with corrugated cardboard. 

Regardless of what you make with it, there are a few essential tools and methods useful in corrugated cardboard construction. Scissors work for thinner and weaker sheets, but a good hobby knife and utility knife are preferred. I like to use an X-Acto when cutting free-hand shapes as the narrow blade turns easily in the material, allowing one to almost "draw" whatever shape desired. I prefer a sturdy utility knife for straight cuts; the thicker blade holds true along a straight edge better than a hobby knife blade. 

In making corrugated cardboard parts, it's essential to consider what direction the corrugations are in and design around these appropriately. Corrugated cardboard easily folds with the pleats but maintains its shape better at 90-degree angles to them. For added strength, make two or more parts the same shape, alternating the direction of the pleats for each, and laminate these together. 

Holes are easy to cut in corrugated cardboard using a dedicated hole cutter or even step drills. The latter will shred the edges a bit, so not a good choice for anything that will show. But still, if you need to bore through some sheets, don't hesitate to pull out the drill and bits. 

Joining corrugated cardboard parts is readily done with glue or tape but is also possible with mechanical fasteners like nuts and bolts, or screws.

Duct tape works very well for rougher or quick designs, as does regular masking tape - these two I often employ for models and templates. But for a superior bond and a more finished look, reach for the white glue. This adhesive works exceptionally well on corrugated cardboard; the paper will rip before the bond fails. (Note: I've used CA "super" glue occasionally, but it seems to penetrate poorly in the fiberboard, making a weak connection.)

Moving parts in costumes, as well as structural designs with corrugated cardboard, require mechanical fasteners and joints. The material takes bolts and screws well, much like plywood, although the paper will rip with too much force, so keep that in mind. I'm considering a rather large and elaborate costume for this coming Halloween, involving several moving parts. If I give it a shot, it'll take various bolts and nuts to pull it together, so stay tuned for an update on how well this works. 

That's it for this installment on my favorite maker materials. When designing your next project, I hope you give corrugated cardboard a second look. This everyday stuff is far more than box material. From templates to models to the finished design - corrugated cardboard is maker material, worthy of a top spot among coveted materials of all kinds.

Until next time. 

JRC

I wonder sometimes if manufacturers of foolproof items keep a fool or two on their payroll to test things. ~ Alan Coren

Designing Foolproof

An unobtainable goal worth chasing

First published July 31st, 2023

By any measure, "foolproof" is a complete abstract untethered by reality. It means designing something that withstands human error, incompetence, or misuse, but given all the remarkable ways humans screw up, nothing can be entirely such. That doesn’t stop designers of all shades from trying, with varying degrees of success. As a result, we occasionally come across a made thing that functions so perfectly it's as if the divine swooped down from the heavens and delivered it. But this, of course, is a very rare occurrence.

Making things well is one thing, but making them foolproof is quite another.

As I write, I sit in my shop looking around for something I would say is close to foolproof. And I am coming up empty. I have some well-made screwdrivers, for example, but in the wrong hands, these could bend, or the tips could break. And my Sterrett tap wrenches work as beautifully as they look. But these could also bend or dent if a tap is inserted wrong. And the computer I am typing on, a Lenovo ThinkPad, is one of the better laptops on the market. Yet, it is so frustratingly glitchy, owing partially to Lenovo’s hardware and more to its Windows operating system.

Any one of these “well-made” things can be severely damaged or destroyed if we don't pay attention or, worse yet, do not know what we are doing. And that's the problem of designing foolproof: anyone and everyone can be a fool. And we are often far more accomplished at it than we care to admit, making the designer’s task of foolproofing all but impossible.

When I make things for myself, I know their idiosyncracies and know how to care for them. The drill press stand I made is a great example. I used 1/4" plywood for the drawers instead of thicker stock often used for such things. And while I am convinced the drawers are sturdy, I do mind how forcefully I open and close them - just in case. That said, I do the same with almost everything I own because I take care of my stuff. But not everyone is so careful (obsessive?), and I wonder if I had made that stand for someone else, would it still be intact?

I've thought a lot about "foolproof" since designing and building the mini camper. It was such a rewarding build that I am entertaining the idea of making them for others. But there are several nuances about my completely custom build that might cause issues for anyone but me. My camper is a good design, but it is far from foolproof.

On the electronics side, I made one aspect of the camper close to foolproof: the switching between DC and AC power. In short, I wired the trailer to run on either DC battery (plus eventually solar) or AC "shore" power. These two sources need to power the same components within the system, and so switching between the two involves completely isolating one while engaging the other. I achieved this by installing two heavy-duty changeover switches and running the two power sources, plus inverters and converters, through these to ensure that the streams never cross.

As far as I can tell, there is no way to screw it up. I can plug in an AC power supply with everything still on battery, and nothing happens. And if the incoming supply surges, there's a 15 amp fuse to protect the system. Likewise, on the DC side of things. Even more robust is the changeover switching: the two switches have three poles each, 1, 0, and 2. I have the DC system on "1" and the AC on "2." "0" is completely disengaged from either. Even if one switch is on 1 (DC) and the other on 2 (AC), nothing terrible will happen (the system will not work, that's all). Still - I'm sure there is a way for things to go sidewise, but I can't think of what it is. Hopefully, I'll never find out.

Another example where my trailer is less-than-foolproof is the water tank fill port. The tank is under the trailer frame, and given the dimensions and design, I could not conveniently position the gravity fill on the outside of the body. So instead, I created a nifty little trap door in the inside floor for the fill. It was a great solution to a challenging problem. But not a foolproof one.

It would be easy to spill water while filling, and if enough spilled, it would infiltrate the subfloor where all the wiring is. Granted, I made solid connections and know to be extra careful when filling the tank. But would someone else be so cautious or as knowledgeable of the risks?

If I eventually build a mini camper for someone else, I'll need to evaluate these and many other systems in my design before passing the final build on to a new owner. There is a degree of user responsibility inherent with anything we have and use. Things need not be entirely foolproof to be still good. Where safety is a concern, we need to be extra diligent, of course. Such is the case with the power system. But other features might be fine the way they are, and anyone using them must be aware and careful to use them correctly.

Perhaps make things good, although not foolproof, and put a warning label on it? (This is the common way of addressing such shortcomings!)

But still, we all make mistakes; we are each the fool at some point. So making things that keep us from being an even bigger fool is a goal worth chasing. If only to save us from ourselves.

Until next time.

JRC

I don't have the answers, not by far. But I know that keeping with traditions is one way we cope. And giving is the most human of all traditions, so why not give now more than ever? Yes, giving to those with and without. And giving from the heart, if only to keep the faith that better days lie ahead. ~JRC

Making the Holidays

Creating is a special part of the season

First published December 14th, 2020

Our species is defined by how we manipulate our environment. In taking raw materials - be it wheat, wood, or words - and morphing these into something new, humans exercise all that it means to be us. This powerful ability is not unique to the world's artists and artisans, though. We all create. And what we each make has value, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. That's why during the holidays when we strive to be more human to one another, giving handmade gifts is one of the best things we can do.

To make things is human. To give them away is divine.

I recently came across someone's "Maker Movement Manifesto" and found it very inspiring. The author listed nine objectives: Make, Tool Up, Play, Participate, Support, Change, Learn - and most relevant here - Share and Give.

Giving away what we toiled over is an act of true generosity. More than that, it's an expression of love that fulfills both the giver and receiver. It feels darn good to make things - and even better to give them away.

This time last year (edit: in 2019), I was busy finishing up an elaborate gift for my son. I had just resigned from my job and had the time to invest in something big. My next career steps were still unclear, but I knew in my heart of hearts that I wanted to make. So I jumped in and started to create.

It was one of the most transformative experiences of my life.

What I made was a diorama playset depicting Jabba the Hutt's Palace from Star Wars. I built it to scale for the 3 3/4" action figures. You can read a description of it and see pics on my website. The final result was personally satisfying. But my son’s expression on Christmas morning that year was the best part of all.

He was proud of me. As much as the gift meant to him, his admiration meant even more to me. It was a reminder that what we do matters to others. It also illustrates well that children are watching us - we must do right by them, always.

Making things for others is generous, but it's not altogether altruistic. Often, the maker gets more out of it than the receiver ever will. But therein lies the remarkable fact of making gifts - one can be generous and self-serving in one beautiful act.

I can't think of any other endeavor that so completely encapsulates the human condition.

My parents were big on making for Christmas. Pop's ritual was to turn wood in his shop. The "annual bowl" he would create always had warmth and character that made us all pause and admire. And the smells of seasonal meals were how Mom expressed the season. That and an expertly decorated home. Incidentally, she is perhaps the best gift wrapper I've ever known. A well-wrapped present is an act of making too.

No matter how small - making creates memorable gifts.

Today, my son and I are building a few gifts in the shop. Making together, father and son, adds yet another layer of wonder to it all. It's an exciting time, sharing wisdom and watching as he grasps and masters new skills. The joy of creating and the expectation of giving sparkle in his eyes as we work.

I hope you take the time this season and express your inner maker. You might not have Adam Savage’s workshop or Rachael Ray’s kitchen, but you don't need these to create for others. A simple hand-made card will suffice. Heck, even a well-crafted email can be a generous gift. It really is the thought that counts.

So put some thought into making something for someone else. Whoever you give it to will thank you. And you will thank yourself for being a little more human. That's the power of giving away things we make. It brings out the humanity in all of us.

Until next time.

JRC