“Uh-oh. What’d you do to get the funky finger story?”
No, that’s not an innuendo. That is a Thanksgiving quote from my sister, Sarah, talking to my youngest nephew, Whitley, after catching the tail-end of our conversation.
Grandma had just given Dustin a filet knife that Grandpa picked up in Canada many years ago. If you’re not familiar with filet knives, they are extraordinarily sharp.
Like any kid, Whit was curious and attempted to pull the knife out of its sheath. Dustin, his father, immediately caught him and gave him a mild lecture about how sharp the knife was.
And then Aunt Coolie came in with her traumatizing story of the funky middle finger.
“You can’t play with knives or you’ll wind up with a weird middle finger like me,” I said and wiggled my fingers at him. Whit knew the story, but needed to hear it again.
When I was around four or five, I cut the tip of my middle finger off. My Paps (Mom’s dad), kept a large tank out back for fish he caught. When there wasn’t fish in it, us kids used it for swimming. Since the water needed to be aerated for fish, Paps hooked up a motor to keep the water moving. I’m sure you can see where this is going.
I was outside playing and Mom instructed me not to put my fingers in that black box by the tank. Let’s just say I’m the reason kids weren’t allowed to play outside by themselves after that.
I remember a lot from that day. I managed to get my fingers in three or four times before the fan caught the middle one. In hindsight I was lucky it didn’t get my other fingers. The next thing I remember is Paps holding me in the kitchen with blood all over his shirt. Aunt Treva (Mom’s sister) and Mams (Mom’s mom) were holding my hand trying to get a look at the damage. At the hospital, I hid under the operating room table and apparently fell asleep. I also remember crying and asking for a nurse I called “Bobo.” To this day, I have no recollection of his real name, but I know he was my favorite nurse.
The tip of my finger was lost, almost half an inch or so, but I was lucky enough to still have enough nail bed to be saved. I’ve got an odd V-shaped scar and a wonky-looking curved and crooked nail with scar tissue underneath. It makes for some interesting conversation when getting my nails done. To quote Taylor Swift, “Horrified looks from everyone in the room.”
Whitley wanted to know what happened to the missing piece.
“Well, the Aunts found it and buried it somewhere in the garden out back,” I said. Whit looked more horrified at that notion than the idea of me cutting it off in the first place.
Afterwards, he also got the story of when, about five years later, I sliced my finger open closing a pocket knife. Grandpa and Aunt Treva, who were both squeamish, took me to the emergency room. Glue was an option instead of stitches. The nurse, trying to make a joke, said she just hoped she didn’t glue my finger to the dressing “this time.” It did not make me feel any better.
A few days ago, Holly Gaskill asked when I was going to write a column — I asked her if she had been talking to my Grandma — and I told her I was considering this one, but I wasn’t sure about it. After hearing the story, she also wanted to come and look at my odd middle finger.
So, there you have it. If you ever need me to traumatize your children so they don’t play with sharp objects, just let me know. Me and my circus act finger will be happy to do so.
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