I got my start as a maker when I was about four years old. I would sit outside by the chicken wire fence, and bend the wires back and forth until they broke, then twist them back together into different patterns. By the time I was five, I had graduated to using pliers, nails, and a hammer. My workshop was in the low crotch of a tree, where I would bang in the nails, and use the pliers to twist the wires around and across them.
A friend came over one time, and I asked him if he was interested to see my workshop. He said he was, so we climbed the tree and I showed him the various nails sticking here and there, and the twisted pieces of wire connecting them. I had a story and an explanation for each part of the work in progress; for instance, this particular nail was intended to be banged in deeper, but had bent over, so I had been obliged to put in this other nail next to it. My friend listened to my explanations very attentively. After I had shown him everything, I felt grateful: to have such a friend, who took my work as seriously as I did.