Effect Essay
It was an unfortunate combination of a pushy boss, an ambush from a cat and my unwillingness to just say no to a horrible idea that cost me a better part of my right hand ring finger. Dave my boss wanted the night stands ready to go to camp that night. I had to sand the tension pegs and all I had was my belt sander. I told Dave I’d bring my table sander down tomorrow and we could make the pegs in a safer fashion. He’d have none of that, he wanted them done there and then. I gave in against a nagging in my head that was telling me I was making a bad decision. So away I went sanding five inch pegs on a belt sander with my fingers. It was actually going better than I assumed, I only have three more to go and I’d be done. At that point B.B., Dave’s wife’s cat came tearing out of nowhere and startled me. I turned my head and as I did my finger got sucked into the back roll of the sander and was obliterated. I’m not short three quarters of one finger. It’s not a life stopper and I’ve become used to it. It does give my friends yet another go-to point for giving me shit. They say I can now only count to nine and a quarter. However, it has had some significant drawbacks that constantly remind me of my error.
I can’t hold my nuts. No, seriously, nuts, bolts, small food pieces fall right out of my hand. Whereas most folks can make a sealed pouch with their hand to contain small parts, I cannot. I’ve got a little hole that lets things slip out. I’m used to it for the most part now but I’ve lost and dropped more fasteners by forgetting this defect in my hand. I’ve also dumped candies, popcorn and other edibles all over me by trying to get them from bowl to mouth by the handful. Now, most would say I’m a fool for not just using my left hand for such activities but I’m left handed. A lot of times my right hand is doing the mindless stuff while my dominant hand is doing the finesse work.
The second downside comes during inclement weather. Much like an older person with arthritis, I can tell when it’s going to rain or snow. You think it would be good to know this in advance and I’m sure it would if the system used to deliver such notices was not throbbing pain. It also gets achy at temperatures most consider “good working weather”. Around thirty-five degrees my poor stub starts to sting, as it gets down into the teens or lower I have to keep my finger crammed under my arm or tucked into one of the other heat pockets of the human body. While working I do this, only taking my hand out when it is actually needed for something. I also where a thin glove under my work glove to retain as much heat as possible.
Lastly is the side effect that will literally bring me to my knees. See, when the surgeon did what repairs he could to my finger he didn’t have much to work with. All he could do round the bone over, find a flap of skin and stitch it back up. So I’m left with a nub that has just flesh and nerves at the point of it. When I accidentally jam that finger it sends such a jolt of pain through me I’m taking out of action for up to ten minutes. This doesn’t happen often anymore because I try to be conscious of that finger when doing activities of the rougher, or industrious natures. But for about six months after the surgery, I cried in pain more than I had the rest of my life. Usually if that finger gets hit now it’s a rare fluke or due to someone else’s actions.
Sometimes I guess and wonder what the worst result would have been if I’d just told Dave to get bent. He may have huffed and grumbled and got over it. He may have fired me. Either of those would probably have been worth it to have that two inches of finger back. But what bothers me the most is every time I think about what I have to deal with; the lost nuts and bolts, the cold and the pain is the night stands themselves. Dave designed them and I built them but I lost my finger for some of the cheapest ugliest nightstands I’ve ever seen.

I'd rather have just sold the damn books.

I find nothing more enjoyable than wood working. That’s a pretty general phrase isn’t it? That’s ok because I most forms of working with wood. Structural carpentry get’s my alpha male on, whittling and carving relaxes me, cabinetry and finish work makes me feel like an artist and simple shelf and furniture making gives me an accomplished sense of fusing function and form. The last mentioned is my truest love and like all true loves, sometimes you fight and sometimes you even need to have a good ol’ fashion knock-down and drag-out. I had such a heated event with a book shelf my wife asked me to make. She wanted a floor to ceiling shelf with deep recesses, filigreed base and crown molded top. Easy right? Well it wasn’t easy it left me with a gouged ceiling, a dirty and pissed cat and two hours of thoroughly cleaning my living room. Looking back on it I can the when, the how and the why of the disaster.
Piss-poor planning and over eagerness was my first down fall. I decided to head into work a few hours early figuring I’d have plenty of alone time in the shop to gather materials, layout the pieces, cut, and assemble the shelf. I was right, I did have plenty of time, I had the hole 7’63/4” book shelf done before any of the other workers showed up. That height is the exact height of my living room. Some may not see the flaw in this so I’ll break it down. A book shelf designed to fit floor to ceiling will be significantly taller when you try to stand it up, kind of like when you stand on your tip-toes. I didn’t realize this flaw until I got home that evening.
The next factor in my personal hobby holocaust was realizing my error and having ample opportunity to take a few steps back but deciding, “What the heck, give her a go!”. I drove home with the new shelf for Chickey, I was just as happy and proud as could be. I backed up to the porch, got a runner rug from my shop and used it to drag the shelf into the house (This shelf was quite heavy, I’m guessing approx. 150#). As I was standing there ready to heave this thing up into position I realized that I’d messed up and on the up angle my shelf would be longer than allowable. I ran through the possible fixes and wasn’t enthused about any of them so stubborn, foolish me decides to try anyway. I got my fingers under it and breathed preparing for the big heave I’d need to stand this monster up. I heaved with all my might and ‘CRUNCH!’ I had lodge the back corner of the shelf up into the ceiling and there is hung at an angle crammed between floor and ceiling. “Sonnuva!”
What else could possibly go wrong? I’ll tell you what else. My stubbornness knows no limits, and at that point I should have popped the bookshelf out of my ceiling and dragged it out to my shop to modify it. No, no, instead I ran to my shop and grabbed my circular saw with the finish blade, went back into the house. I laid the shelf back down and set my saw up. There were several reasons not to do that but none penetrated my tired, angry, simple brain. So, I did it, I cut three inches of each leg. That is when my true love brought me to rock bottom.
We now have a beautiful floor to ceiling book shelf in our living room with a slightly modified base but I’m not entirely sure it was worth it. The minute I touched that saw off, Merlin, our cat came to from his nap on the couch. At the same exact time he and everything withing eight feet of him got blasted with a plume of sawdust. He tore off through the house leaving a trail of dust, my couch along with the pillows, drapes, carpet and coffee table where covered. I got the shelf in place, mudded the ceiling, vacuumed the room (and the cat) all before Chickey came home. She fell in love the minute she saw the shelf and was none the wiser to the hell it took to get it there.