Re: Razor Blades
Reading these stories makes me feel very envious. I want to grab a razor blade, or knife, or chainsaw, or something and then hack something off. Wow! What a story I could tell. Unfortunately, outside of the little cuts we all get from doing just about anything, all of my appendages are prospering quite nicely. But I do remember this:
When I was ten my grandfather was working with a bandsaw and I was watching. My grandfather had never cussed in his life but I saw him snatch his hand back and say "Damn!" He then reached into his back pocket, grabbed a rag, and wrapped it around his finger - or what was left of it. As he moved to finish the board he was cutting he asked me, in the most casual manner, if I wouldn't mind looking for his finger in the sawdust. I looked but not really. My eyes were pointing to the sawdust but I was in shock and saw nothing. He found the finger and walked back up to the house holding his hand and blood soaked rag up in the air. At the house he asked my grandmother, who had once shot a bank robber with a derringer, to sew his finger back on. My grandmother insisted that he go to the doctor and he did though under protest. Replacing the finger was not an option. He was a tough old man, my grandpa.
Reading these stories makes me feel very envious. I want to grab a razor blade, or knife, or chainsaw, or something and then hack something off. Wow! What a story I could tell. Unfortunately, outside of the little cuts we all get from doing just about anything, all of my appendages are prospering quite nicely. But I do remember this:
When I was ten my grandfather was working with a bandsaw and I was watching. My grandfather had never cussed in his life but I saw him snatch his hand back and say "Damn!" He then reached into his back pocket, grabbed a rag, and wrapped it around his finger - or what was left of it. As he moved to finish the board he was cutting he asked me, in the most casual manner, if I wouldn't mind looking for his finger in the sawdust. I looked but not really. My eyes were pointing to the sawdust but I was in shock and saw nothing. He found the finger and walked back up to the house holding his hand and blood soaked rag up in the air. At the house he asked my grandmother, who had once shot a bank robber with a derringer, to sew his finger back on. My grandmother insisted that he go to the doctor and he did though under protest. Replacing the finger was not an option. He was a tough old man, my grandpa.