The Toothpick Tower

This evening I went to a writer’s workshop led by the poet Hermine Meinhard. After introductions, she began a writing exercise by littering the table with a motley group of objects—corks, coffee filters, toothpicks, nails. The moment the toothpicks spilled out of the box, my eyes welled with tears of nostalgia; and I felt like I’d been pulled back in time—like hearing a song that returns you to the moment you first heard it, complete with attendant sights, smells, and feelings.

Carrie’s eighth-grade science teacher assigned the semester final: The Toothpick Project. It was actually a study in engineering design, with size and height specifications for a toothpick-and-Elmer’s-glue structure that, when completed, had to support the weight of a 10-pound bowling ball.

As was typical at the time, Carrie procrastinated. She started perhaps a week before the project was due and did a tiny bit. The vast majority was done the night before and into the early morning hours of the day it was due.

We had boxes and boxes and boxes of toothpicks. Can you imagine how many it takes to construct a tower a foot high and 6-8” in diameter? The little wooden creatures took on a life of their own in achieving random distribution throughout the house. I remember telling Care that we would be using the leftover toothpicks 'til she was in college. We did. And they were always a sweet reminder of The Toothpick Tower constructed in haste, that groaned in protest, but upheld the bowling ball.