For a time, I would take wood Father had cut and throw it under the front porch. I was careful not to toss the cut boards into my windows, but it proved inevitable. Eventually it was decided that I could cut the wood as well as carry it to the aforementioned pile. The table saw Father had used was ancient and dilapidated. The electric motor was supplied by a threadbare, cloth insulated cable. What few bolts held the machine together barely did so via a wizardry I have never understood. The entire table wobbled to and fro, and the saw was quick to bite into even the softest woods. SInce this frightening monstrosity had become my responsibility, there were three sounds I learned to associate with the table saw: the scream of it cutting wood, the moan of the motor when it was overburdened, and the agonizing screech it made when it was bound up on wood too hard for it to cut. I was convinced that someday I would lose a finger or more to the contraption. I voiced this to Father but he was certain that I was simply trying to get out of work, and so for greater fear than loss of limb, I cut wood and carried it under the house for several hours each week. This was my daily chore most of the fair weathered months for the better part of the years I lived at home.