Scars

I was relaxing the other evening in a lawn chair and happened to notice a scar on the calf of my right leg. I remembered that scar coming from an injury I received when the crank broke on my mountain bike. I had just pushed hard on the pedal to get moving. The crank snapped and the downward momentum of my leg caused me to scrape against the jagged metal of the broken part.

Looking at that scar led me to looking at some of the other scars I have. Having done mostly physical labor all my life, I have many scars from cuts and scrapes. The nastiest is on the middle finger of my right hand. I got this finger caught in a small printing press at my first job after tech. school. It was a bone-head accident that could have been prevented. It also could have been much worse. At least I still have the finger. But that scar, which runs the length of my finger from the cuticle to the second knuckle, reminds me to keep my hands away from moving machinery.

On the index finger of my right hand, there is a scar that I got from an underscore blade on a press. My finger got between the blade and the anvil roller I was trying to put in. I was upset that my supervisor insisted on taking me to the E.R. to get the cut stitched. It didn't need it and the company didn't need a reportable accident. Plus, I had to pee in a cup for a drug test because of the accident. That's not a big deal as I was clean, but it still sucks.
Then there's a scar on top of my right index finger between my first and second knuckle. That one was really stupid. I got it when I lit a wrapper from an American cheese slice on fire. The melting plastic dripped onto the finger and almost immediately hardened. So it kind of burned into the skin. That was pretty bone-headed too.

I see a couple scars on my left wrist. A girl on the school bus, for no apparent reason that I recall, dug her fingernails into my wrist. Obviously she drew blood. I'm pretty sure she liked me. I kind of liked her too, but nothing ever came of it. I was too shy.
When I say, “...for no apparent reason...”, I mean that I wasn't being mean to her or anything. She was just that way. We'd sit and talk on the bus ride. Sometimes we'd be bantering back and forth, trading jibes. Sometimes she'd slap me or something. So I probably said something and she dug into my wrist.

There's another scar on top of my left wrist. This one has a little grey/black colored dot just under the skin. That was from second or third grade. My friend, Rob, accidentally stuck me with a pencil. I'm sure we were horsing around like young boys will do. It was completely accidental and I was not angry. But I always gave him grief about it when I'd talk to him later when we were in high school.

I had lost touch with Rob for many years. Then I found out he had co-written a screenplay for a kid's movie. In fact, I found out when I saw his name in the closing credits. I looked him up and got in contact with him. He's doing very well in Los Angeles. He had a comic book series that ran for 10 years. He directs a T.V. show for Comedy Central. I'm very proud of him. I always knew he'd be successful. But I still, even after some 15 plus years, had to bring up the pencil incident. I told him that it has always been a fond reminder of our friendship.

On my right forearm there is a roundish scar. That one came from a game of chicken I played with my friend, Dick. In this form of the game, the two “players” put their arms together and drop a lit cigarette so it is burning into both players' arms. The one to pull away is the loser. It's funny to think of now. What does the “winner” of this game win? Both people have the same nasty burn on their arms. Add that one to the growing “Bonehead” list.

On my right eyebrow I have a scar from a sledding incident. I was sledding with my friends, Mark and Brian. I think I was around 12 or 13 years old. I don't remember exactly. We had built a snow ramp. Of course we were going for maximum air and distance. I went down on an old runner sled, the kind you could steer. I was laying on my belly on the sled. I hit the ramp perfectly. I flew for a good distance. It was probably the longest jump of the day. Then I landed. My head snapped forward and hit the metal cross bar on the sled. I got up, laughing and holding my hand to my forehead. I was saying, “Oh man that hurt”, and “Did you see that jump?” It really was a fantastic jump. When I brought my hand down, I saw the blood. So we went to the house to get a band-aid. Mark's mom looked at it and insisted I needed to get stitches. That was when I started crying. I did not want to get stitches. I had never had to before and it scared me. But, I had to go anyway. My mom happened to be the receptionist at the clinic so it was convenient for her to sign the paperwork and all.

That incident happened shortly before school pictures. We were not a wealthy family. We tried to save money where we could. So my mother always cut my hair. And the only style she knew was the “bowl” cut. So school picture time was coming and I needed a haircut. Picture day came and went. A few weeks later, pictures arrive. And there it was. My bangs went straight across my forehead, and made a perfect little arch over my right eyebrow. The eyebrow had not fully grown back and you could see the scar. Thanks mom.
I have other scars. Most of them have a story to go with them. I don't have any tattoos so my scars tell my stories.

I hope this wasn't too boring. I hope the readers, if there are any, didn't expect to read any psychological or emotional scar stories. Although I do have plenty of those to tell. And I have and will. But these scars, these flaws in my skin guide me to some of my memories. And it's ironic that they are only skin deep. Sometimes the stories behind them are so much deeper...to me anyway.