Making a lamp
When I was five, my parents purchased a hundred-year-old fixer-upper.
One of the earliest photos of me shows a kid in pajamas pulling plaster off a crumbling lathe wall with a claw hammer as big as my young arm.
As I grew older and bolder, I explored our dimly lit basement, poking through one hundred years of time recorded in mildewed boxes spilling rusted bolts, screws, nails, hinges, pieces of harder-than-stone hardwood, and a thousand other treasures that I couldn't even name.
Along one wall was a big workbench made of rough-hewn planks blackened with age and use, strewn with hammers, handsaws, pliers, screwdrivers, and many other tools that were unfamiliar to me.
I was in tinker's paradise.