‘Neither refused the meeting’
By Joe Rector
“Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.” If you remember this line, it’s possible that you sat in a typing class during high school. If you are as old as I am, then, you might have banged away on a typewriter, not a sleek, easy-touch keyboard.
I wasn’t a good typist. Those around me were so skilled that their machines seemed to smoke. On the other hand, the sounds at my typewriter were mixtures of quick strokes, the muffled swear words, the jerk of backspacing to correct mistakes, and more cursing as the bell rang to signal the end of the timed test. While other students smiled when the teacher announced their WPM (words per minute), I tried to find a hole into which I could crawl and lick my wounds. A lousy 26 WPM must have ranked at the bottom of the class.
My report card reflected the lack of success. A huge “F” was in plain view. Afraid to take such a horrible grade home, I walked to the typing classroom, inserted the report onto the roller, and aligned the paper with the keys. A “B” perfectly covered failure. In later years, I worked on my skills enough to be a fair typist. Of course, the way to correct mistakes these days is much quicker and neater, another reason I can type.
My favorite thing to do is work in the yard. My best thinking comes when I sit on a mower. Weedeating is a chore I don’t mind completing. For several years now, I’ve picked one or two stumps in the yard. They haven’t been small ones. For days, I labored to get them out of the ground. I swing an axe, chop with a mattock, dig with a shovel, and pry with a steel bar until the things come out or are far enough under the ground to keep from destroying a mower blade. Too many shrubs need trimming, and flower beds need weeding, but the work is something I enjoy. Being outside is a blessing, and having a huge yard to keep me busy is a dream come true.
In the past few years, I’ve tried to become a woodworker. My creations are what I call rustic. Measurements are off from piece to piece. Trying to make them fit makes the final product a bit cockeyed. I’ve bought tools to make jobs easier; among them are saws, routers, and angle finders. Only one thing that I’ve ever created has made it into the house.
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to make a patio chair. For the first time, I decided to make all my cuts before putting the chair together. Things were running smoothly, and before long, my mind began to wander. In a heartbeat of not paying attention, my left ring finger hit the saw blade. Robert Frost’s poem “Out, Out” best describes the accident:
“He must have given the [finger]. However it was,
“Neither refused the meeting.”
I looked in dreaded horror at my hand. It had already become a bloody mess. I ran to the house and yelled to Amy that we had to go to the hospital. I weakened as we wove around road construction to reach the ER. Amy put me in a wheelchair and rolled me to the front desk. Those waiting in the room looked at the blood-soaked towel on my hand. It’s amazing how quickly a staff moves when a patient says, “I’ve cut off my finger and I’m on blood thinners!”
Dr. Calhoun with KOC met me the next day. I expected him to amputate the digit, but he said he could fix the finger. He said he’d been offered great deals on hundreds of table saws. The offers were made by spouses of injured husbands.
For the next sixteen weeks, I’ll be visiting physical therapy. She said the demographics for the injury I suffered indicated that most often the person was a white male between the ages of 60-80. That makes me feel somewhat better, knowing I’m not the only Clutz.
Golf, yard work, and all the things I enjoy are on hold until further notice. I’ll use my saws again, but my attention will be keen from now on. If goofs are in future stories, have mercy on a one-handed typist.
