Scraps are good things; I mine my scrap barrel for gold frequently. But scrapes are a whole ’nother thing.

For some reason, I’ve been accident-prone lately in the form of numerous scrapes. I currently have – wait a second while I count – no fewer than 14 scrapes, scratches or scabbed-over small cuts on my hands and forearms. None are serious, but each involved at least some small amount of bloodletting. I hate that.

Although some are tool-related, I can honestly say that none were caused by actual tool use. I’ve got a nice little gash on a knuckle, caused when I grazed the base of my drill press while using a bench brush. A scratch on the back of my left hand came from a drill bit I brushed against after laying my drill down on the assembly table. A super-sharp corner angle on a piece of oak left a small cut on my right hand when I got the piece off the lumber rack.

Others aren’t shop-related. My artillery reenactment group did a living history event on Veteran’s Day this past Thursday, and while firing the canon I brushed my forearm against the steel rim of the canon’s wheel hard enough to scrape skin. And while performing the lowly task of unloading groceries into the refrigerator the other day, I scraped a knuckle on one of those plastic door bins.

Visiting with family over the weekend, my sister noted that refrigerator injury (easily the largest of the 14 current ones) and asked what I did in the shop to get it. The assumption being that since I’m a woodworker, then I’ve obviously been busy in the shop from the look of my hands and arms.

That’s to be expected, I guess, as woodworkers are constantly getting minor scrapes and dings. It goes so much with the job that I’ve often heard small injuries like this taunted as badges of honor.

Well, I don’t need no stinkin’ badges.

Till next time,

A.J.