When I was a kid I would pass time with Granddad in the old barn he'd set up as a wood working shop. "Granddad's Paradise" as the sign on the door boasted. Later, in his twilight years when his hand-eye coordination deteriorated it became known as "Granddad's Random Amputation Center".
Anyway, in the old days, after a demanding day of farm labor and once again surviving Grandma's loving attempts at murder by means of lard-soaked starches, we'd retire to the shop to become one with the wood. The thing I remember most was the old Craftsman table saw... the centerpiece of the shop and his only power tool. At first it was the loud noise that frightened me, but that was soon replace with the dread of the gosh awful smell that nearly always followed. Neither seemed to bother Granddad, and you could tell by his smile that he loved that saw. Sometimes he would abruptly stop what he was doing, walk over and turn it on just to make a casual cut on a piece of wood. I thought this was strange given how meticulous he normally was about first measuring and defining a line.
Then one day he hurried over, threw the switch only to discover a split second too late that it was unplugged. The saw remained silent, but the barn rumbled with what sounded like someone quickly accelerating a Harley Davidson under a blanket... followed by the smell. He quickly cussed the old barn cat whose eyes were as big as mine, and also watering in self-defense, but I wasn't buying it. Cats are not design to contain such pressure without becoming a projectile, and Omar had never left the ground.
From that day forward I called it the old Crapsmans saw, and learned to step outside during cuts to unmeasured lumber. Maybe that's where the phrase "cut one" comes from... I don't know, but I miss the old fart.
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