The Ship The Finger and a Bottle

“That's a photo-enlarger. It's used for working on photographs.” My father and I were in the attic looking for spare parts for a project we'd been working on. The attic was a mixture of boxes full of strange and unusual stuff. Everything from electronics and love letters to World War II photos of relatives. One night in the attic, while sifting through a box of old photos, Grandma and I found a rainbow lollipop made from twisted taffy. It was so big that the heavy round of candy wouldn't even fit in my hand. Grandma said that Grandpa had bought it for her when they were dating. The candy was still covered in the original cellophane. Grandma slowly took it from my hands and placed it back in the box.

But today was not a day for browsing and reminiscing; we needed those radio parts. My father was showing me how to change the tubes in an antique floor radio left to us by a great-aunt, when he realized we needed some parts he thought were in the attic. That's when I stumbled upon the box I was now investigating. Easily distracted, I pulled out part of the enlarger, a heavy black square with a thing that looked like a metal folding lamp attached to one corner. The base had a grid carved into it with measurements labeled on two sides in white ink. He stopped to explain further.

Until we found the enlarger, I didn't even know that my father was interested in photography. Apparently, it was something he dropped after he met Mom. Strange how we see our parents as if their identities were always the way they are, like they never had a life before we entered the picture. Most of the time I'd known him, he'd been an electrician by trade. Putting the photography equipment away and picking up the now-found parts, we went downstairs and got back to repairing the radio. In a few hours, we had it working and picking up transmissions from all over, even overseas!

In my brain, learning about electricity was one of those things that just happened, like working on the farm in summer and learning to make pickled watermelon rind with Grandma. Not that I showed anything more than a cursory interest in these things, but for a moment, the desire to learn was too powerful. I had to know how to do everything. Like a lightning bug, I'd land on something long enough to see what it was. My brain would absorb how things functioned, but it wouldn't stay on one subject long enough to really absorb or fully apply the knowledge. I had to know how everything worked. Grandma told me I was naturally nosy. But I think it was because there weren't any other kids on my street, which left a lot of time to get into whatever the adults were doing. I guess we were both right because the next day, I decided it was time to head over to the neighbor's house and see what I could get into over there.

While exploring the enormous boulders in the creek behind the neighbor's house, I was observing how the curves and angles of the rocks made the water ripple and change direction. Watching the water led to remembering an old black-and-white movie I'd seen the Sunday before. My pulse raced, and a slow smile came over my face...an idea.

One of the larger boulders looked remarkably like the nose of a ship. I found myself thinking, wouldn't it be interesting if I christened this boulder like the actress did on the ship in that old movie? If I could find a breakable bottle, I could christen it the same way the beautiful lady did in the movie. It was rather strange for me to even have this idea, since I'd never before had the remotest thought of imitating anything I'd seen on television or in movies. I'd never broken my leg trying to jump off the roof and fly like my friend's brother, who spent the first half of 4th grade in a cast because he thought he was Superman. I didn't think I could twitch my nose or blink my eyes and suddenly make the dog turn into a bunny. Still, here I was thinking about christening ships and, almost as if the creek read my thoughts, there it was, an empty soda bottle floating toward me.

A glass soda bottle someone had conveniently discarded was a few feet from the boulder. The bottle must have been in the creek for a while because it was made of the kind of heavy glass that only really old soda bottles were made of. Picking up the bottle, I felt the weight of it in my right hand; a plan was forming. Intently squinting like a hockey player staring down the puck, I sized up the boulder, picturing in my mind's eye the perfect place to hit it so the bottle would break. I could see the ship clearly. Imagining a crowd of onlookers cheering as the bottle shattered against my stand in ship. Ready-steady-go!

I heard the shattering of the glass against the rock. I'd hit the rock with all the strength my arm could muster. The bottle shattered, but something was wrong...

As the bottle hit the ship-stand-in, I realized too late my error. I hadn't let go of the bottle. Looking down, I saw tiny shards of shattered glass mixed with drops of red liquid, making a thin line between my feet, trickling down, staining the pebbles, then stopping at the boulder.

I realized I was still gripping the neck of the bottle in my hand, a leftover from moments ago when the body of it hit the boulder. Numbly, I dropped the top piece of the bottle into the creek. Hot red blood ran out of the now semi-detached end of the middle finger of my right hand. The sight snapped me into action. Grasping the pieces of the afflicted appendage tightly with my free hand in an attempt to keep the thin remaining piece of tissue intact, I ran toward home.

Running home was more a reflex than a conscious thought; muscle memory. Running is extremely difficult when your hands are clasped together and blood's sputtering everywhere. Something kept me from stumbling and falling, propelling me toward home, toward Mom. I ran up the dirt road, past the neighbor's house, and toward the loop at the end of our road. The neighbor would probably have helped, but for whatever reason, that hadn't occurred to me. I only knew I had to get to Mom.

Home seemed further away than I remembered. Time blurred, then I was stumbling up the steps onto the porch. I used my shoulder to slam through the front door. Everything was suddenly awake with activity. Family and things around me appeared to be moving with cheetah-like speed; my mom, towels (so many towels), she was pushing me into the bathroom and trying to convince me to let go of my finger so she could see the damage. I didn't want to let go because I was thinking the end would fall off, and I'd lose all my blood if I let go. Obviously, I was not thinking clearly.

Mom never learned how to drive, and everyone else who could drive was at work or out, so Mom wrapped my hand in a large towel while she called the neighbor from the house phone. Our neighbor drove this extremely large 4-door sedan. It had an old car smell. At this point, Mom and the neighbor had to half-carry me to the car as my legs weren't interested in walking. Mom put me in the seat next to her, and we took a very surreal trip to the hospital.

While we were in the car, everything appeared foggy and distant. Their voices were very distant. The smell was making me nauseous. Slumping against Mom's shoulder, I may have lost consciousness for a minute. The next thing I remember, I was being pushed through doors and down hallways on a gurney. People were shouting all around me, and a soft but forceful weight was bearing down on my arm. I was cold and kinda nub all over. Looking around, I couldn't see Mom or the neighbor anywhere, but I knew they had to be there. Focus, I had to focus. Someone in white lifted me from the gurney, placing me flat on my back on what I could only assume was an operating table. Everyone was wearing masks. We were in a room with bright overhead lights glaring in my eyes. My eyes, having always been light-sensitive, stung, but I kept them open as long as I could. I was too afraid of missing out on what would happen once they were closed. My arm, which I'd been holding tightly, seemed far away from the rest of me.

In the operating room, a new flurry of activity was around me, and at the end of my arm was a doctor yelling orders. The doctor was touching my hand, but I couldn't feel it. At this time, I realized the weight on my arm was actually a person, a nurse who was attempting to hold my arm still. The doctor kept telling the nurse it wasn't good enough and to hold my arm tighter. I tried to be still as he stitched my finger back together. My inquisitive nature, coupled with the medication, overcame any fear of losing my finger, which made me relax quite a bit at this point.

I kept trying to reposition my body to see more of this new, interesting place, but that was difficult to do without moving my arm, and they did not want me to move my arm. Thankfully, the doctor was amazingly gifted in his craft. He stitched the finger together so well that, after the bandages came off and the appendage was completely healed, the only remaining evidence of my misadventure was a thin scar wrapping its way around my finger, and ending in a tiny X where he'd tied off the stitches.