Was just eating a sandwich with lunch meat, and had an injury deja vu experience. Not for real, just remembering how it went.
I loved bologna sandwiches since some time before I was born, but with four kids under the age of 5, my mom was often a tad busy...like "move aside kiddo, I've got stuff to do" busy. So, we were living in East Kermit, West Virginia. Sounds like it was a nice place...but it wasn't much to look at, and even worse to live there.
There were only four houses there, but in West Virginia that qualifies as a suburban community. We were a mile or so outside of the metropolis Kermit. No it wasn't named after the ditsy frog of Muppet fame (or maybe it was?). The place was right on the Tug river, and it was totally rat infested...but I digress, and will save that for another story.
Where was I? Oh yes, hungry and dismissed. So I figured I was a big boy of three years and could make my own damn bologna sandwich. Only problem was that it wasn't sliced...it came in one of those big rolls that looked like a King Kong hot dog. That wasn't going to stop me...I pulled open the kitchen drawer that was up above my head, and felt around until I found the one and only sharp knife we owned. It was known as the "butcher knife", but as far as I know none of us were actually butchers.
I got it down, and held it in my right hand. I held the bologna roll in my left, and with wild abandon, started to cut me a respectable slice. It never occurred to me that it wasn't such a smart idea to make cuts directly at my supporting hand...but I learned really quickly about the injury potential that would create.
The knife went through the meat like a hot butter, and then into the joints of all four of my fingers. Bingo, blood all over and pretty intense pain. I looked at my bloody fingers in disbelief, and let out quite a yell. My mom dropped everything and came to see what all the ruckus was about. I ended up getting quite a lecture and four really cool band-aids with stars on them - one for each finger.
Lessons learned: Always avoid finger food...and sharp knives when you are three years old. Get your bologna pre-sliced and save your digits for your computer.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Brained
The first injury I can recall happened when I was about two years old. I lived in a coal mining town (Lando Mines) in southern West Virginia.
It was a dirty, grimy place with gray houses and crushed coal used for gravel on the roads. We lived in a deluxe house that had indoor plumbing, and the monthly rent was $25. If you didn't mind using an outhouse, you could get a cheaper house for only $15 a month.
Two houses up the road from us lived my best, and only friend, John Bentley. John was a lot older than me - having just turned 3, and a lot bigger too. We played in the dirt and dust almost every day, and generally got along well.
One day in early summer, I got a wonderful new toy. It was a toy fire engine...bright red, and painted with gold trim and numbers. It was made of cast metal, and had wheels that worked. I loved to set it down on a slanted board and then watch it roll all the way to the bottom. I could hardly wait to show it to John!
As I'd expected, John loved it immediately, and we played for a couple of hours just rolling it on a board, and making crude imitations of a siren sound. Then nap time approached, and I was getting pretty sleepy. I picked up the toy, and started for home to get my much needed shut eye.
Well...John was not pleased at this turn of events, and he tried to grab the truck out of my hand. I wasn't about to let him have it, so I wouldn't let go. After struggling for awhile, John decided to try a new approach. He picked up a nice size rock from the ground and bashed me in the head with it. My inclination to not give him the truck disappeared immediately, and the blood washed down into my eyes and all over my face.
John screamed in triumph, and I screamed in pain. His mom came out to see what was going on, and she started screaming too. To be honest, my head wasn't hurting much and I was screaming mostly because I'd never seen so much blood in my life. So, when Mrs. Bentley started screaming too, I knew that was not a good sign...so I increased the volume of my own screams too.
She ran down the stairs with a dishtowel in her hand, and started mopping the blood out of my eyes. Then she wrapped the towel around my head like a turban in an effort to stop the bleeding. I think it worked pretty well, and at least kept blood from getting in my eyes again.
She kept asking me how I managed to hurt my head like that, but hey lady, I was only two and had only mastered few words. All I could do was point at John and cry. She couldn't figure out what I was trying to say, and so just pointed me toward my house and said I'd better go home.
So, I left with her dishtowel adorning my now throbbing head, and John kept my fire engine. I decided that was ok because it was red, and I didn't care much for that color anymore.
Lessons I learned: Don't lose your head over anything - especially a toy fire truck.
It was a dirty, grimy place with gray houses and crushed coal used for gravel on the roads. We lived in a deluxe house that had indoor plumbing, and the monthly rent was $25. If you didn't mind using an outhouse, you could get a cheaper house for only $15 a month.
Two houses up the road from us lived my best, and only friend, John Bentley. John was a lot older than me - having just turned 3, and a lot bigger too. We played in the dirt and dust almost every day, and generally got along well.
One day in early summer, I got a wonderful new toy. It was a toy fire engine...bright red, and painted with gold trim and numbers. It was made of cast metal, and had wheels that worked. I loved to set it down on a slanted board and then watch it roll all the way to the bottom. I could hardly wait to show it to John!
As I'd expected, John loved it immediately, and we played for a couple of hours just rolling it on a board, and making crude imitations of a siren sound. Then nap time approached, and I was getting pretty sleepy. I picked up the toy, and started for home to get my much needed shut eye.
Well...John was not pleased at this turn of events, and he tried to grab the truck out of my hand. I wasn't about to let him have it, so I wouldn't let go. After struggling for awhile, John decided to try a new approach. He picked up a nice size rock from the ground and bashed me in the head with it. My inclination to not give him the truck disappeared immediately, and the blood washed down into my eyes and all over my face.
John screamed in triumph, and I screamed in pain. His mom came out to see what was going on, and she started screaming too. To be honest, my head wasn't hurting much and I was screaming mostly because I'd never seen so much blood in my life. So, when Mrs. Bentley started screaming too, I knew that was not a good sign...so I increased the volume of my own screams too.
She ran down the stairs with a dishtowel in her hand, and started mopping the blood out of my eyes. Then she wrapped the towel around my head like a turban in an effort to stop the bleeding. I think it worked pretty well, and at least kept blood from getting in my eyes again.
She kept asking me how I managed to hurt my head like that, but hey lady, I was only two and had only mastered few words. All I could do was point at John and cry. She couldn't figure out what I was trying to say, and so just pointed me toward my house and said I'd better go home.
So, I left with her dishtowel adorning my now throbbing head, and John kept my fire engine. I decided that was ok because it was red, and I didn't care much for that color anymore.
Lessons I learned: Don't lose your head over anything - especially a toy fire truck.
In the Beginning
This blog is about my life - especially the times in my life where I have hurt myself. Buddha said that "Life is Suffering", and somehow that's been the predominant theme in my journey. I think the idea is that we must suffer to learn, but I don't think I've learned much from my physical suffering. I had the crazy idea that as I got older that I would run out of innovative ways to injure myself, but just in the past 10 days I've hurt myself four different times.
Looking back, I am amazed that I have lived as long as I have. All I can say is that my stupidity is balanced by my toughness and luck. A fortune teller told me many years ago that I was going to die healthy. I remember thinking..what the heck does that mean? Now, I understand. One of these fine days I will finally succeed in doing something so incredibly dumb and dangerous that Darwin's law will prevail and it will be my time to move on from this world. Of course, I probably won't be able to post anything about that incident. :-)
Looking back, I am amazed that I have lived as long as I have. All I can say is that my stupidity is balanced by my toughness and luck. A fortune teller told me many years ago that I was going to die healthy. I remember thinking..what the heck does that mean? Now, I understand. One of these fine days I will finally succeed in doing something so incredibly dumb and dangerous that Darwin's law will prevail and it will be my time to move on from this world. Of course, I probably won't be able to post anything about that incident. :-)
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