I’ve got a bandage on my thumb. It’s because of my overweening love of books. To write well one must read even better. Then the book stacks begin to grow.
I head to the basement. I used to live in a four-bedroom house, but it was owned by the institution that intimated my services were no longer required. After that I’ve moved to a succession of two-bedroom apartments and all that implies.
In the basement lie my dormant power tools and scraps of wood. Back when we lived in “the house” my basement buzzed with the making of cheap, pine furniture. Mostly bookshelves. Here in the apartment the basement is shared and space is at a premium. Some people don’t like finding sawdust all over their stuff.
The result has been stacks of books growing up beside the existing shelves. I don’t mind that so much, since a background of books is always visually interesting. But then I went to get a book from the bottom of a stack and ended up with a ton of knowledge cascading down on my head.
A new bookshelf was in my future.
Power-saws worry me. I watch horror movies, after all. Still, it wasn’t a saw that cut my thumb. My least favorite job when it comes to cabinet-making is sanding. No, I didn’t sand my thumb off.
Sanding takes a long time for bookshelves. There are many exposed surfaces. Lots and lots of corners. Reaching them can be a problem, and my sander blows right into my face for a good portion of the time.
To reload the sander, you have to fumble with a thin, tough clip. My arms are already shaking a bit from trying to control the beast. Then the clip slips out and whacks my thumb. It stings, but I think nothing of it. Until the blood starts hitting the floor. Good thing there’s sawdust there.
Down one thumb, I call it a day. Typing’s not easy without a digit, but I keep on. All for the love of books.
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