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When I was 11, I was sitting in the garage whittling on a block of balsa wood, trying to emulate my dad's mastery of the woodcarving craft. On one stroke, my pocket knife sunk deep into the wood and became lodged. Because I was inexperienced, I inherently trusted the lockblade mechanism, I changed my grip to the opposite direction, grabbed the handle with my full palm, and tried to work the blade lose.

The lock gave (it was probably not strong enough for this force anyway, but compounding the problem was the fact that it was dirty with pocket lint and grime) and folded onto my pinkie. I severed a small artery and it shot a little spurt of blood with every heartbeat. I quickly went inside and told my dad what had happened. He talked me through wrapping it up, applying pressure, holding it above my heart, and said, "Sit down and after Star Trek is over I'll take you to get stitches."

The nerve has never fully healed - half of the tip of one pinkie is numb to this day.

Thankfully my scout troop decided not to take a corner of my Totin' Chip; they felt the stitches were lesson enough. Fast forward to today, and the lesson stays with me. I enjoy safety features on my firearms, but I'll never rely on them to overcome careless or reckless behavior.