At a recent writer’s workshop, a suggested writing prompt was the word “scars” with the notion that behind the scar might be a story. Indeed, my very first scar not only had a story but became an item of usefulness – though getting it was pretty scary for a four-year-old.
I’ll start with its helpfulness, as you can see it stretched across my left hand. By the time I was in school learning left and right, I had a handy sign. I felt a bit of pity for other students who lacked such a practical marker.
The drama with several twists that brought it on came because I was enamored by trains as I am to this day. I heard the whistle of the one that ran on the track behind our house and ran to the window to watch. The excitement began with the appearance of the engine and continued until the caboose passed completely out of sight. Joyfully, I turned to go back to whatever I was playing, swinging my arms cheerfully. I swung them right into the broken glass chimney of a kerosene lamp sticking up out of the garbage can where it had been tossed the previous night. The electricity had gone off, and before the lamp was put up, the chimney had broken.
Blood gushed everywhere as the glass slashed across my hand. In the first twist, Daddy, instead of Mama, rushed me to the doctor (in walking distance since he didn’t drive). She stayed home with two-year-old Beth and six-month-old Gwyn. The second twist was that the doctor put four small metal clamps in the hand to hold it together for healing. Don’t ask me why he didn’t do stitches instead. In a third twist, Daddy bought a set of alphabet blocks that nested together for us to play with when I got home. A new toy with no event attached was a novelty. He said something about my bravery, and I’m sure he was aware that I could manipulate the blocks one-handed. However, looking back as an adult, I have to wonder if there was not some assuaging of his guilt for having left the glass in such a hazardous place.
To this day, though the scar has faded to almost invisibility, if someone tells me to turn left or that something will be on my left, I automatically lift my hand with the scar. For many years, you could also see scars of tiny dots where the clamps were placed, but they are entirely gone now. In ensuing years, I have acquired a few other scars, none of their stories suitable for blogging or useful except in their origins as troublesome body parts were eliminated.