Paying the Price

Yard work does not come without injury in my world. My arms are the proof – and hey – I even had longish sleeves on?

Sure I gashed a hole in my arm cutting down a dead shrub. Yes, the belt on the riding mower broke mid-stream, causing a great disturbance in the repair force around here. It could have broke for anyone? And the welt on my other arm is subsiding after last week’s trimming attempt. All pale in comparison to the fact I nearly cut my finger off sawing a log years ago.

I was about 15, helping Dad, insisting I could saw that log. The saw jumped, slicing my finger. I was too stubborn and aghast to admit defeat, wrapping and nursing that digit forever. I’m sure my dad noticed the attempts to hide my left hand, but he never said anything, even after I sported a very pink scar the rest of my high school years.

I learned that bandaids can be sutures. I haven’t sawed any limbs off of myself yet. So overall, it was a pivotal event.

This jewel-of-a-moment was brought to you by my angst in not being able to finish mowing the property due to the abundance of rain. I know it will dry one day, I will mow, and the mower and I will be whole once again.