Inventors and inventions fascinate me. As long as I can remember, even as a little kid, I was captivated by stories of inventions and the people who created them. How did they think up those things? What is different about the way prolific inventors like Edison, Tesla, Franklin, or Bell solved problems? Is it something that can be learned, or is it just the unique makeup of these people?

I don’t know the answer to those questions, which of course leads to more fascination with the people who have the inventor gene (if there is such a thing). But I love crossing paths with inventors and exploring their ideas. Throughout my career in woodworking, I’ve met dozens of people who came up with clever inventions to solve woodworking problems. I’ve written about many of those inventions and the people behind them.

But I still don’t have a clear understanding of what makes these people different. Even so, I do know that there seems to be more than the usual share of inventor types in the woodworking community. Every shop I visit has features or ways of doing things that they developed on their own. Sometimes these innovations are truly unique, and other times they are a lot of re-inventing wheels that other shops have done, too. Heck, I do the same thing all the time in my shop, making simple jigs and fixtures to make a process faster, easier, safer, or more accurate.

Those are what I call little inventions. Bigger inventions are something else. A bigger invention is something like a whole new machine or a breakthrough product or a new marketable tool. This is a different level of inventive visualization and vision. It requires seeing a solution and all the contributing parts and assemblies as one full piece all at once.

They say necessity is the mother of invention, but it takes more than need to spark a completed innovation. Decades ago, when I was building stringed musical instruments, I needed a large resaw bandsaw, and it just wasn’t in the budget. But I was just young and foolish and clever enough to think I could build such a bandsaw myself. And I did. I called it Frankenstein. It weighs in excess of 300 pounds, cobbled together from scrap steel, scrap cast iron, and off the shelf bearings and hardware. It’s a miracle that it works, but it does and it’s still cutting wood in my shop today.

Even more amazing are the inventions designed from the onset to be sold. I tried my hand at that, too, but not very successfully. Maybe that’s the whole secret of the fascination. It’s like going into a restaurant, smelling the aroma in the air, and knowing the chef will cook up something great, but you have only an inkling of the ingredients. Still, I live for that meal.