The sanding incident.

Last weekend, Lane brought home the note telling us to begin construction on the 3rd Grade Space Shuttle.  This is a third grade tradition, so it was no surprise.  I now clearly remember Madolyn's, it was all white.  She and her dad made it.  I stayed out of it.

Lane asked us if he thought his grandpa would help him make his this year.  He had drawn up plans (that is so Lane) and had an idea of what he wanted it to look like and what he wanted to use to create it.  He asked his Grandpa Wilhoit and he said yes.  Grandpa W. has a workshop in his garage that is perfect for this kind of thing.

Last Sunday Lane went up there and they began their project.  They worked some more on it Tuesday after school and it's coming along nicely, I am told.  Tuesday night at the ball game, we were talking to Jay's parents about how the process was going and Jay's dad was describing it to us, telling us how Lane was using the sander to sand the pieces down.  I love this. 

My brother and dad were very much into woodworking back in the day, and I have many memories from my childhood of watching them work and create beautiful pieces of wood "art" so-to-speak.  I would love it if Lane would also develop this interest and build things.  Actually, I have a whole list of items I can think of right now :)  Maybe between both grandpas and an uncle, he'll develop some of those creative skills and use them.

As soon as Jay's dad mentioned the sander, I had an instant flashback to an incident involving the belt sander when I was a youngster.  I can't recall many details except these two main points:  I was told NOT to use the belt sander or any of the power tools without supervision, and I did not listen.

For whatever reason I felt I needed to use the belt sander at that moment, I do not remember, but I did...knowing I wasn't supposed to, and guess what happened?  I got hurt and had to spill the beans.  Dang it, that always happened to me!

I ended up shaving or sanding, I guess, the top of my pointer finger nail right off with that belt sander.  Talk about a burning sensation.  OUCH.  I can still picture myself slowly making my way to the front door of the house from the shed, shielding my it-was-burning-so-bad finger behind my back and holding in the tears.  I had no choice but to fess up, and I did.  I can't recall if I got in trouble or not, maybe the rough nail removal was punishment enough.  Either way, I still remember the sanding incident and the painful reminder that I was never very good at being sneaky.