This spring, during my first or second time to weed whack then mow the lawn, I was almost through with weed whacking for the day when I was trimming around an old stump in the back yard. I heard the unmistakable sound of the string from the weed whacker being broken off, this becomes a flying projectile the sound was immediately followed by a searing pain in my right shin. I immediately reviewed my rules for weed whacking.
Rule number 1 always wear eye protection. Check.
Rule number 2 wear long pants,
Rule 2A if you don't wear long pants wear socks that cover the shins.
Rule number 3 if you break rule number 2 don't swear when you get hit by debris because the neighbor children are at an impressionable age.
Upon completing my review of the rules I determined I was obeying rule number 1 but I broke rule number 2 and 2A. With some effort I kept rule 3.
I looked down and saw a thin line of blood across my shin with a bit of peeled back skin. It hurt. It hurt bad. I wondered if I might need stitches. I did not want to touch it because my hands were really dirty. After I limped around a bit and castigated myself for being so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I looked it over some and determined I probably did not need stitches and if I did I would finish the job first. So I kept on weed whacking, then mowed the lawn, then tended to my first-aid. I can get a bit type "A" when it comes to finishing the lawn. That was a few months ago. I now have a nice scar across my shin.
Since it is summertime, I wear shorts anytime that I can. There are so many times when others dictated what I wear, when I'm not being told what to wear, I choose shorts. This has given me plenty of opportunity to view the new scar. This has also made me think a bit about scars, especially my scars. Scars seem to be an inevitable part of life. They are evidence of living--evidence of mess-ups, evidence of trying new things, evidence of failure.
In thinking about how I got some of my scars I have found that I can't remember what caused some of them. Others I have vivid memories of how I earned them. One scar I got in the 5th grade--it was a true wrong place at the wrong time incident. My mother was browning a roast for Sunday dinner when I walked through the kitchen and was right beside her when she turned the roast. It slipped off the fork and fell back into the skillet. The splash caused hot oil from the pan to fly into the air, unfortunately my face was in the trajectory of that flying oil. The scar was really prominent for a year but faded over time.
Another scar on my face came from a split second decision while sledding one day. It was a wonderful day. We were in the hills on a snow packed road, the sled was a flexible flyer. Near the bottom of the hill there was a sharp right turn. To make the turn, you had to turn into a skid to keep from going around. We had more friends than sleds so we went down in twos. One to steer the sled and another to lie on the drivers back for added weight and speed. If you did not make the turn at the bottom of the hill you would fly off the road into a barbed wire fence. Nothing like danger to make sledding all the more fun. One run when I was the driver, we made the right turn and stayed on the road our momentum kept us going and around another turn when we came face-to-wheel with a tote-goat hauling a group of sleds up the hill. I had to make a split-second decision: Stay the course and hit the tote-goat, or go off the road into the rocks. I chose the rocks. Hence a scar above my lip.
On my right foot where the big toe bends is a scar from my stupidity. I went swimming in a lake by my self, in an area where no one else was. I chose to go there because I could not swim and I was embarrassed by that fact. Adding to that fact it was a Sunday, refer to Christian teachings and remember that one of the big 10 commandments is to keep the Sabbath Day holy. (come to think of it my sledding scar occurred on a Sunday too). So add all these bad omens up and the only smart thing I did that day when I stepped on a broken beer bottle, I recognized I would need stitches. So I immediately went for help. Have you ever had stitches in a toe or finger? When the doctor numbs it up, that shot is memorable to say the least. Adding to how memorable it was, he stuck the needle in the gaping wound and when he went to pull the needle out the needle stayed in. He had to get some pliers to pull the needle out. I can still vividly remember how bad that hurt.
One scar is good. It is in the place of a tumor. I'm very glad I have that scar. It is in my arm pit so no one asks to see it.
My scars tell some of the story of my life. They point to dumb moments, thrilling moments, life's challenges.
One of my scars over time has come to mean a great deal to me. When I was born I had a large birth mark to the side of my right knee. If it were still there it would be about 5 or 6 inches long and 3 or 4 inches wide. When I was in grade school my mom had it removed. It was taken off in the summer when I was staying with my Dad. At the time he was living in Ely, Nevada. My nephew Lance Pollard was just a toddler at the time. The week following my surgery I still had my stitches in and could not bend my knee. I was standing on the front steps with Lance and he started to fall. What I'm going to relate, really was my thought process that took place in an instant. I saw that he was going to hit his head on the corner of the cement steps. If he hit his head he could really be hurt. I realized that he was too far from me to stop him from falling unless I stepped forward and to do that I would have to bend my knee. I knew this would really hurt. How I knew this was during the surgery to remove the birth mark I woke up in the operating room and I felt like my leg was on fire. I remember the nurse rubbing my face and telling me to be still and not to let my parents see me cry. Cry! My eye, my leg was on fire! So I had an inkling of what bending my knee would fee like. But I lunged forward and caught Lance. He did not hit his head. I felt a searing pain in my knee. I went into the house with Lance and I laid down. I was scared I had really hurt myself. What I did do was pop some stitches and ripped open the wound. Now with the passage of time this scar looks like a snake. The part of the scar closest to where my knee bends is where the head of the snake is. The scar is really quite ugly.
The reason this scar means something to me is over the time I have come to realize I got this doing something selfless. I jeopardized my well being to help someone else not get hurt. Why did I do it? I did it because I love him--that is reason enough. That instant and the scar has come to mean a lot to me.
Oh and by the way I always obey rule number 2 now when I weed whack. I bear evidence of when I did not obey this rule and next door the neighbor children are always outside bouncing on their trampoline so I have to obey rule number 2 so it is easier to obey rule number 3.
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