I was the kind of kid who despised school. School was just a waste of time, an annoying delay in my plan to launch a career in farming. I informed my parents that I would probably have enough education by the end of third grade.

They didn’t agree and instead insisted that I attend classes until I earned a high school diploma. I gritted my teeth every morning as I slouched my way into our gloomy brick schoolhouse.

I hate to admit this, but school occasionally had some bright spots. One of them was Ag Class, which was taught by Palmer Eidet.

I enrolled in Ag Class because it featured a section about acetylene and electric welding. I had always been fascinated by welding. Whenever Dad took something that needed fixing to our local machine shop, I would watch, enraptured, as the workmen used hissing gas torches and sizzling electric arcs to mend items that seemed beyond repair. They could make almost anything from nearly nothing. They were metalworking gods.

Mr. Eidet must have had the patience of a saint. After all, his job included instructing a bunch of zit-faced, hormone-addled teenaged boys about the safe handling of miniature flamethrowers and industrial electrical doodads that produced enough amperage to instantly melt steel.

Mr. Eidet began his welding instruction by teaching us how to operate an oxyacetylene torch. My learning curve often involved the improper introduction of oxygen, which resulted in a startling firecracker-like “POP!” There were numerous times when a loud report nearly caused me to jump out of my socks.

I found oxyacetylene welding to be a Zen-like experience. You have to patiently heat the base metal until a puddle of molten steel forms then gradually introduce the brazing rod. None of my brazed welds were pretty; I was happy if they simply held together when I picked them up.

I eagerly looked forward to learning about arc welding. The crackle of the arc, the fountains of sparks, the god-like power to create something from nothing!

Mr. Eidet escorted a small group of us students into the welding room. This sacred corner of the school’s shop featured a massive ventilation system that was powerful enough to be a hazard for small children. We were given instructions regarding how to properly angle an electric welding rod and strike and maintain an arc.

This was before MIG welders became common. When I first heard about MIG welding, I thought that it had something to do with repairing Soviet fighter jets.

We all put on welding helmets — I hoped that its previous user didn’t have headlice — as Mr. Eidet powered up an electric welder. He proceeded to effortlessly lay a perfect bead of welding on a slab of steel.

“It’s just as important to listen to the arc as it is to watch it,” he said from inside his welding helmet. “A good arc should sound like frying eggs.”

The school had procured a handful of Century stick welders. All of them were AC, which meant that we had half of the band that’s known for such deeply philosophical tunes as “Highway to Hell.”

We were each issued a chunk of steel and told to have at it. I would like to say that I was a natural at arc welding, but that would be a fib. My initial welds looked like gobs of melted crayon.

I gradually became better with practice. I must have burned through 50 pounds of the taxpayers’ welding rods before I could lay a halfway decent bead.

Little International is held each spring on the campus of South Dakota State University. During Little I, students from across the region compete in various agricultural contests. Mr. Eidet improbably chose me to participate in the welding competition. Maybe he thought that what I lacked in skill I made up for with persistence.

Competitors were given two bars of ½- inch thick steel. We were instructed to grind a bevel at the end of each bar, then weld them together. Upon completion, the bars were put into a machine that bent them into a U shape, revealing any voids or goobers in the welds. I don’t recall how my welding rated; I was simply relieved that my entry didn’t break.

Mr. Eidet’s faith in me gave me the confidence to tackle numerous farm welding jobs that were probably well beyond my skill level. And when I recently rebuilt our farm shop, I capped it off by purchasing a vintage Century welder.

My current welder has both AC and DC capabilities, which means that I can meditate about the lyrics of “Thunderstruck” while heeding Mr. Eidet’s advice about frying eggs.

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at http://Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.