I found much of what I read in Shop Class as Soulcraft to make sense. Some of it even put words and reasons to some vague theories I've been working on for a few years.
One situation he describes captures how I feel about plumbing projects. I have an older home that has seen its share of owners and repairs over the years. Sometimes that age makes a "simple" plumbing project take a silly amount of effort.
You can quadruple the amount of horsepower a VW engine makes, or even more, if you need it to last only for a single race and are willing to spend absurd amounts of time and money building it. I was reminded of this by Chas when we first discussed what was to be done about my engine situation. Scrawled above the dingy parts counter at Donsco was a slogan: "Speed costs. How fast do you want to spend?" It represented a kind of anti-salesmanship. If the usual method of the salesman is to insinuate himself into your favor, play on your hopes, and lead you imperceptibly to an expensive decision, the mechanics behind the counter at any old-school speed shop seem to adopt a more ambivalent stance, in which the desire to sell is counterpoised with haughty professionalism. If you want chromed "bolt on" baubles that claim to give you power, go to a chain auto pans store to indulge your shallow fantasies. Then put the sticker on your rear window. If: on the other hand, you want to go deep and have your crank journals nitrided, you've come to the right place. Just tear down your motor and bring us the crank. This Olympian stance can have a powerful effect on the customer. It hints at the existence of an exclusive club that he might aspire to be a member of (those who have held a bare crankshaft in their hands). So perhaps the disdain one encounters in speed shops is a higher form of salesmanship, the kind that announces a hierarchy of human beings. But you can't buy entry to this world, you have to earn it. There is no sticker.
Page 86-87, Shop Class as Soulcraft
emphasis added
In particular, I'm thinking of the joy I feel when I am finally able to extract a faucet stem from some antiquated fixture or device, then wrap it in a blue rag and take it to the local hardware store. Not the Big Box place, but the one about a mile down the street that has all the parts for the old houses in this neighborhood.
I walk in with a smile and my package and we talk about grease, packing with graphite string and whether or not the seats should be replaced.
I can usually walk out for a few quarters or maybe a dollar. Yeah, it might take me longer to replace these pieces and fix the device than it would to throw it away and replace the whole device for thirty-five dollars.
Speed costs. How fast do you want to spend?(I may have found an inverse corollary?)
But in the process, I've learned about teflon tape and where (and where not) to use it, how to sweat a pipe, I've learned about washers, gaskets and collected the right tools for the job at hand. And the knowledge of how to use them.
And when I'm done and the project is put back together and the fixture is working again, I can turn on the faucet, feel the cool (or hot) water run over my hands.
"[I] can simply point: the building stands, the [water] now runs, the lights are on." There is no need to boast. I simply point. (page 15).
