2023

June 21

Human memory is a fascinating thing.

I’m going to state two facts about my childhood. I am then going to state something that never happened.

Fact #1: My dad would take me and my younger brother, Alex, on bike rides. We rode in a two-seat trailer. Rides varied from playground trips to errands to long rides through meandering trails.

Fact #2: My dad hunted occasionally. He would often bring the game home for us to eat. Pheasants, ducks, and elk (bi-annually) were served after successful outings.

One day not long ago, we reminisced about times past. I was certainly old enough at this point to recognize that my memory conflated the two facts. My mind did not serve me accurate recollections. I did not, however, think much of it. As my family and I retold visions of our childhood neighborhood, mischief caused, road rash, and blessed milestones, I brought up the bike rides.

With a warm sigh, I said, “Hey Dad, remember when you would take us on bike rides and hunt for magpies?”

“What?” He said, truly flabbergasted and mildly concerned.

“Yeah, remember? Alex and I would be in the trailer and you shot magpies with your pistol and we brought them home for dinner.”

It would have been reasonable for him to politely excuse himself from the conversation. I’m surprised he didn’t. Instead, he replied with unequivocal candor, “I would never do that.”

I don’t recall where the conversation went from there but as I reflect on the exchange, I find myself equally flummoxed at my suggestion stated, apparently, without an inkling of consideration for the context. I want to break down the levels of absurdity with this scene.

1. No one rides their bike for exercise or fun with two children in tow carrying a loaded pistol. Maybe someone has in the history of humanity, but it wasn’t my dad while he was out for a roll to the Orange Park with his two young children. There was no gun tucked into his biking shorts.

2. Should, for any reason, someone carry a weapon on a bike ride, they don’t FIRE the gun on the side of a road, on a bike trail, or in public. My dad didn’t blast off rounds riding on the pathway next to C-470.

3. Magpies are not for hunting. Never in my life have I heard of “magpie season.” They are abundant throughout North America but are not hunted for sport or food. To shoot a magpie is concerning on many levels.

4. Magpies are not for eating. They are dirty, dirty birds. Like their relative the crow, they are smart, may band together in mobs, and live communally. They also have a wide-ranging diet that includes, among other things, carrion, beetles underneath cow dung, and garbage.

5. Should, for any reason, someone choose to hunt a magpie for food, they are not hauling the carcass on the remainder of their bike ride. The only way to bring a dead bird back on one of those bike rides would be to toss it in the trailer with the kids.

6. If any of the above ever occurred, I expect that trouble with the law and social services ensued. I’m happy to report that my dad has no incidents with either agency to my knowledge.

Despite all of the above, there was a point in my life where I thought we hunted for magpies on bike rides. I don’t know which of the bullet points above is more absurd than the fact that a grown man made up such a ludicrous memory and thought it normal.

Upon reflection, I think it’s a subconscious incarnation of the admiration I carry for my father. Despite the absurdity, I can envision him cruising on his bike at a healthy clip, his boys in the back. A magpie takes flight from the bowling alley parking lot on the left. With a keen eye, Dad cocks his head and locks onto the target while drawing the loaded pistol from his exercise shorts in one motion. A practiced twirl of the revolver aids his cross-body aim. From thirty-five yards, he discharges a single shot, dropping the soaring Corvid from the sky in a flurry of feathers. No one reacts. He blows the smoke from the barrel and keeps pedaling to let the iron cool. We make our way to the fallen game to collect tonight’s fare.

Oh, the things we do for our children. And oh, how they look up to us.

2022

July 26

 The worst thing to be is in a rush. Especially around power tools.

This morning I conquered a household task that gave me fits for several days. When we moved into this house over two years ago, we inherited a couple of televisions and television mounts from my grandmother. She had her trusted AV team come over and hang these sets where we asked. Two and a half years later, one set has to relocate. Getting the screen off the mount was easy. Getting the mount off the wall was not. Two screws came out as one would expect. It required some effort, but some strong lefty loosey turns set them free. The other two would not budge. No amount of elbow grease or weight led to progress. I toiled for hours. I tried every trick in my book. I didn’t want to strip the hardware so I was careful when trying new tactics. Rubber bands over the top, screw extractor bits (made it worse), sprayed WD-40 in the joint (felt inappropriate but the internet suggested trying). Nothing worked. I don’t know if the people who mounted this thing cemented the hardware in place, had superhuman strength, the house shifted while it was up and compacted the material holding those screws in place, or some combination of all three but they would not move. Yesterday, my patience exhausted slightly before my options. Brute force was the next play.

I drilled into the head of the screws hoping to mangle them apart. This fully stripped the heads. I tried to cut them off with a multi-tool. This only destroyed the blade. My frustration strengthened to the caliber of this steel.

A visit to Home Depot equipped me with new multi-tool blades made for metal. My team was complete. We would not fail today. Before breakfast, determination taking precedence over hunger, we sheared the heads off of these foul, but sturdy fasteners with grit and aplomb. Sparks flew as metal clawed against metal and the mighty mount dislodged from its abode.

Vehemently cursing my fallen foe I stepped, barefoot, directly on one of the severed screw heads, sharp and blazing hot from the battle. I was barefoot. It hurt.

Thankfully, my feet are calloused enough, and the shrapnel small enough, that the error did not result in a meaningful injury. But it could have. I was barefoot, cutting through metal with a power tool, sparks flying, a heavy, metal mount increasingly precarious in its position, and all I was motivated by was completing the task.

This is the part of the story where I say, “lesson learned.” However, I could have learned this lesson two years, two months, and fifteen days ago.

Before moving into this home, I set out to match the flooring on the top floor. One room had carpet, the rest had laminate. On the day of laying the laminate, we were busy. We were working, packing, and preparing to welcome our first child into the world.

Everything was ready. All we had to do was make our cuts.

The first cut would be the hardest.

Cutting a board lengthwise is difficult. Cutting a four-foot-long board that is 7” wide to 4” wide is difficult and risky. I considered myself an experienced and cautious craftsman, but accidents care not of one’s ego.

In my haste to make progress on the floor, I did not drop the table saw blade to the proper height. I usually allow the blade little room above the material being cut. Today, there was probably a quarter-inch to half-inch of the blade visible above the laminate.

As we fed it through, I focused on keeping a clean line. My attention was set on keeping the edge flush with the gate. A quarter through the cut and I moved my front hand backward to grip further down the board when I heard a conspicuous and unexpected ZZZZZIT.

I jumped back, knowing that I caught my fingers in the blade. Many thoughts transpired simultaneously.

I can’t believe I just did that.

I’m always so careful.

I may have just lost a finger.

I’m going to the hospital tonight.

How did that happen?

“Call 911,” I said to my father-in-law, who was holding the other end of the board.

“Call 911,” he hollered inside to my wife.

During my instinctive retreat, I clasped my hand through the shredded glove, afraid of what was underneath. Andrea and I made eye contact and without words, she knew it was bad and I apologized.

Adrenaline and a primal urge gave me the strength to check the damage. Bending at the waist, blood dripping to the red concrete, I pulled off the glove to see my ring and middle fingers maimed, but not severed, below the first knuckle. The pointer and pinkie were scathed, ultimately superficially.

Ted pulled up a camping chair and ripped the handle off to craft a makeshift tourniquet. Andrea was on the phone with ambulance dispatch as I assessed the damage, called off the ambulance (they couldn’t confirm if they were in-network), and steadied my breathing.

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into the Emergency Room at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Andrea was eight months pregnant, we were in the middle of moving into a new home, COVID-19 newly a pandemic, and I almost cut off two fingers. The extensor tendon in my middle finger was severed, the tip of the metatarsal was clipped on both fingers, and the skin was mangled. Two days later, they were surgically repaired. Six weeks later, the pins sticking out the tips of my fingers like little signposts were yanked out. Today, I consider myself physically uninhibited by the incident. It was the most physically traumatic experience of my injury-ridden life.

The lesson was there. Today’s inadvertent step was lucky. I was lucky two years ago. This is a reminder to slow down. Do not count on luck. Eliminate the need for luck through constant diligence and patience. These are thoughts I have often. I write them down sometimes. Practicing them constantly is the way.