Most that I've been throwing out are just sanded. As time goes on, I'll probably paint a few, seal a few. . . .
I was trying to decide if certain stores [where the turnings could not be confused with inventory] would be good locations, now or in the future.
I think of this as, in some cases, a "little green apple event."
Around 73, I worked an orchard on the south side of the Columbia, near Brewster, Washington. I wore a pull-over sweat shirt with one of those pockets that go all the way across. As I drove a tractor through the orchard, apples would find their way into the pocket.
At the end of the day, I'd flop back in the big arm chair, stick my hands in the pockets and, find little, green apples. I would just pull them out and leave them in the ash tray.
After a few weeks of this, the wife started complaining. Of course, this inspired me.
After that day, she started finding little green apples in tea cups, in her underwear, floating in the toilet and so on.
The apples grew through the season, and so did her miffidness (hey, it's a word).
I stopped. For my own safety.
However, down the road, well into the apple season, we were shopping. When we got to the counter, we realized we'd forgotten the milk, which was at the back of the store. I ran back to get it and, while I was there, I heard this blood curdling scream, from somewhere up front. It sounded somewhat like my then wife.
When I got back to the front, she was in her rattled mode. Apparently, she'd found a large, "little green apple" at the bottom of the cart, in the process of placing items on the counter.
I wasn't even thinking about it when I found the apple in my pocket and tossed it in the cart.
Years latter, after the divorce, I wonder if I should have just gone ahead and pushed her on over the edge?
The reason I have what you want is, I never lent it out before.
Scraps are a myth.