Sunday, January 15, 2012

Writing Retreat, Day 2

The scar on my left index finger was incurred during an unbelievable bout of stupidity. I had been painstakingly whittling something for weeks despite having no whittling talent or training and nothing but a Swiss army knife to work with.

But it was my latest obsession, and i took any and every opportunity to work on it.

One day, we were at a stoplight. I knew it was a long light, so i pulled out my tools. So engrossed was i in my work that i didn't see the light change. The old Ford Windstar minivan started moving with a lurch, and the knife blade slid smoothly into my finger.

I stared at it for a moment, watching the blood bubble up around the blade. It had gone in horizontally and lay under my skin. Then it clicked: i had a knife in my finger. And it hurt.

I don't remember what i said to my dad to alert him to the situation. I remember him yelling at me in a panic as he tried to find a place to pull over. Our first aid kit was empty. Dad found an old Sunday school paper to wrap my finger in until we got home.

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