Bob Villa who

I remember the trail of blood in the kitchen on our brand new light oak-colored table and the wood floors. I remember Dad hopping up and down, telling me to get out of the way. I remember the cop car, staying at the neighbor's house for one of my parents to come get me and my brothers. And I remember thinking that my dad was most certainly going to die.

No, he wasn't shot. And he didn't die. And the cop car? It was my neighbor's.

I was about 6. Dad cut off his finger with a circular saw while making molding for our hallway at 15 Bluffside Drive. For weeks after they reattached it, he'd hold it up in the air like he was at an auction; the worst part was playing in the basement while he watched TV. Every so often, the nerves in his finger would spaz and he'd jump up and scream that manly "raaahhhhhhhhh" in pain.

It's why he doesn't watch Bob Villa. He was following Bob's directions when he lost his ability to feel in his finger.

And why I think maybe he hates Dave. He bought Dave a circular saw last week when he was here, so Dave could do the molding in our kitchen and the fence in the back yard.

The Fourth of July didn't bring trips to the hospital for Dave, but just to prepare him for the inevitable, I made him take a picture. I called it the "before" picture -- he's just holding up all 10 fingers and smiling. Yup. If there's an "after," I'll share it. Half the fence is up already, though, and he's still sporting 10 digits. We'll see how long that lasts.

Someday, I'll share the "gawddammit, I just glued my eye shut!" story. But enough making Dad look silly for one day. Let's talk about Dave's family instead. Jaaay-kay.