In the past three years, I’ve often wondered if I’ve stretched the limits of my curiosity over the decades, and that I will in fact get killed like the proverbial cat. I now wonder how I didn’t roll that tractor, although it was nice to be able to change gears again, even though changing gears on a 8-tonne tractor at a 45-degree angle around the side of a craggy mountain is not only hair-raising, but downright insanity.
Then one summer day in 2020, I bent over and blew the wood shavings and cobwebs off Jake’s table saw and suddenly became re-acquainted with my boundaries. If you’ve never seen a table saw; if you’ve climbed an icy peak in sneakers and jeans; if you’ve hiked in ballet flats; if you’ve camped in my yard in your boob tube and woken up in my gazebo clutching a bottle of vodka: if you think that a table saw is simply one of those hand saws lying on a table, then let me inform you.
A table saw does look just like a table, but nestled in the middle, poking through a slit as if it’s hiding in wait like an alligator in a pond with only its eyes showing, is something trying slice off your fingers so quickly you might not realize for a few seconds. Perhaps you’ll try to pick up your cup of coffee and woah!
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