The magic of power tools is that you can do much more with much less. This belt sander Ashley let me borrow from work is a workhorse. I call it Esau, like the WWII British slang for a 1000 kg German bomb. I’m just aching to get my hands on a floor sander. When I pictured it, I thought of a gigantic square, something like a floor waxer. They’re not though; not anymore, leastways. Because it’s a random orbital, it’s much better to have it in the shape of a circle. I’d love to do the floors in this house, but we don’t own it. One day I’ll own a house and I’ll sand and polish the floors to a high shine. (The word husband, by the way, is a legacy from the Vikings, “hus bond,”meaning a yeoman who owned his own house.)
Christina wants me to refinish a dresser for her birthday. It’s a nice enough dresser; pine, I think. Someone took demon claws to it and there are long gouges all over it. Looks like a cursed thing, a juju. I’m waiting for bad luck to descend in a cloud of sawdust. Even the belt sander’s having difficulty getting the claw marks out. Oh well. It’ll still look good.
At Lowe’s with Iris, the gentleman demonstrating the jigsaw told me it would be a nice present for Father’s Day. Actually it was a dinky little thing. I sneered inwardly.
But there’s really something about power tools. My horizons expanded when Ashley brought home the orbital for me to sand down the bed frame. I’d done the curved edges by hand, of course; you have to, if it’s a nice piece of furniture. His great-grandfather made it. It had a nasty coat of shellac which had melted in the summer heat of upstate NY and bits of fuzz were stuck to it from previous blankets. It was a mess when we got it. It’s beautiful now. I stained it a deep dark mahogany and polyurethaned it. Mozilla tells me in angry red zigzags that that’s not a word.
Back to the dresser while Baby’s still napping.