Fingernail File

FINGERNAIL FILE

Growth can come from bad experiences. We tend to learn better when there is pain involved. I get a reminder to be more careful every time I trim my fingernails.

We have some really old cabinets from the 1970's in the kitchen, and updating them would have set us back several thousand dollars. As school teachers with summers off, sometimes we do the work instead of hiring it out. The dark stain on the cabinets was atrocious, and I determined to take one of the cabinets down and sand the darkness off. Certainly a coat of light oak over the veneer would look better than the darkness that dominated the kitchen, and after the first cabinet was done, Debbie declared she liked it. Since then she has said she would like to put them downstairs and get new cabinets, but for two summers I was a dedicated sander and stainer, making those old cabinets look like new. They don't look bad if I do say so myself. So what if it took two years?

Sanding with a belt sander was a new adventure for me, and as I have become used to scarifying myself, I was very careful. I even made it through the first summer with minimal damage; mostly some sanded skin which grows back quickly. The project was looking great, and here I was in the second summer, ready to finish off the last door of the section I was going to get done before school started. After this section, there was the pesky lower section by the sink, but that would have to wait. I was determined to get this part done before I started teaching again.

One of the problems with a belt sander is that the belt doesn't always sit securely on the sander, and no matter how I pried this particular belt, it didn't want to cooperate. There was only a sliver of belt left to get onto the sander, and whatever I tried didn't work. It seemed as if I could use my little finger to get it into the small slot, but it just wouldn't budge.

Perhaps if I turned on the sander.

And as quickly as that, my little finger zipped through the sander. The belt was now seated correctly, but from what I could tell, I had just sanded off the fingernail on my right pinkie. It was hard to tell because the blood was gushing out. I only had a little bit of cabinet left to sand, and I knew from past experience that after an injury like this, I wouldn't feel much like sanding after today. So I figured if I just wrapped my finger up in some paper towels, it might bleed slowly enough for me to finish this last door. Then at least when I went to stain these cabinets later, they would be all done. So, with the energy a fresh burst of pain gives you, I sanded away and got the last part done in a jiffy, thanks to the brand new belt which was now on the sander. It may have been a little bloody, but it chewed up the wood like a champ.

I went into the house and unwrapped the pinkie. It was bright red and very sore. I couldn't see any fingernail left. I smeared some Neosporin on it and wrapped it up in a few band-aids. I knew from my toenail experience earlier in my life that it would grow back, and based on how nice my new toenail looks, I was hopeful for another beautiful replacement.

That was not to be. Apparently, I sanded off all but the smallest corner of my fingernail. I guess it would be the rightmost part, since the nail grew back, but it grew back sideways. Now when I cut that fingernail, it is off to the side about twenty degrees, and sometimes is still painful, especially if I cut it short. I know from experience that the doctors can fix it, but I don't mind it so much; especially when I look at my other scars on my right hand.

There are several cuts from my woodcarving adventures. My hand aches when the weather changes because I broke one of the bones in my little finger. I’ve jammed fingers so many times I know I need to wait a year before all the swelling goes down and my digits get back to normal size. My thumb pops and cracks and often aches, but that also runs in the family.

But all these scars, emotional, mental and genetic are good. I am all of the experiences I’ve had, and maybe one of these days I’ll learn not to stick my nose, or my little finger, where it doesn’t belong. Then again, maybe not.

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