My dad, born in 1920 in Anadarko, Oklahoma, was 100% Okie—and proud of it. My mom hails from Nevada, and Dad would have done anything for her. As their only child, I’m half-Okie, inheriting both their stubbornness and knack for finding sharp objects.

Story 1: The Lawn Mower Incident

In the spring of 1971, I was off to Senior Prom, so Dad decided to mow the lawn for me. When my parents returned from an errand, I saw Dad clutching his right hand, wrapped in a bloody T-shirt. Turns out, he’d found a dog bone in the grass, reached down to grab it without turning off the mower, and the blade swung into his hand.

Thankfully, a Vietnam vet-turned-microsurgeon told him he'd seen worse. He saved the finger, and Dad continued his work as a diesel mechanic, regaining feeling in his hand.

Story 2: The Chainsaw Lesson

Though we didn’t chop firewood often, Dad knew his way around a chainsaw. After a rainstorm, a Eucalyptus tree fell into our fence. He borrowed a chainsaw to cut it up, but in typical fashion, while holding branches, he cut upward—sending the saw bouncing off the back of his hand.

Another hospital visit, more healing, and minimal damage. I was a brat back then, stopping him mid-task to say, “Don’t put your hand in the saw blade.” He called me a smart aleck... or something that started with ‘A.’

Passing the Torch

As a half-Okie, I don’t run into sharp objects quite as much, but my sons love reminding me of my bread knife accidents—not once, but twice. After I retired, I took up woodworking, or as my folks would say, “making dust collectors.” I learned the hard way that fingers and table saws don’t mix and that kickbacks from old saws are no joke.

Luckily, my wife, a retired RN, patched me up after my last incident—no stitches required. With my Okie roots and a few close calls, I figured it was only fitting to launch Half-Okie Woodcrafts.

So, take my advice: keep your hands away from anything sharp.

Alan