Certain moments in childhood stick out vividly and center around visceral emotions interwoven with our connection to someone. And I hold numerous memories of when my father, a fence man by trade, would appear in the door holding his hand. Then, stumbling to the sink, a splattered of red dots would trail behind him, alerting us to another accident. Those involved in a blue color labor trade know well the physical risks associated with walking this path. My dad dealt daily in rolls of bobbed wire, pickets, 4x4s, posts, chain link, nails, screws, hammers and various tools of the trade he inherited from his father and eldest brother. Countless fences in Columbia area from the ‘60s-‘90s bore the Buckelew name. It’s what he knew. And what he was good at. Back when his hair was black, skin smooth, and hands steady.
“Daddy…. you hurt?”
“Nah, just a little scratch, Doo,” he reassured 8 year old me as streams of blood poured into the sink from a deep gash in his hand. Sometimes I could see the muscle or bone. “Run get me the super glue?”
“Shouldn’t you go to the doctor?” I asked. Mom would appear beside him with white rags and bottles of alcohol and peroxide, chiding him for carelessness.
“Nah. It’s just a little scratch. Surface wound.” He would grin at me like Daddy always did. Reassuringly. Like after one of his best jokes. I set the superglue on the counter beside him, then turned away, leaving him and mom alone to make everything right again.
I thought of these moments from my past when Kevin stumbled in our front door Friday evening around 9 pm holding his hand. I knew that face.
“How bad is it?” He didn’t answer.
“Answer me, dammit. Do we need to go to the ER?”
“No. Just a little scratch,” he said, face contorting. I followed him to the kitchen. His shirt was stained with dark red patches. Our four little curious ducklings trailed behind us.
“OUT!” I said, pointing sharply towards the living room where Harry Potter was being jerked around by a spell-cast broomstick during his first quidditch game. I wasn’t sure I wanted them to hold these memories. Not yet. Their daddy is a super hero in their eyes. Superheroes don’t bleed. Well… until they do. Just like mine, I suppose. It’s in those moments that we all grasp how the narrative of our lives is mostly out of our control. That Life, as it speeds along, creates its own story arc and all we can do is hold on with the hope of making sense of it after it’s all over.
The kids scattered. Eight year old Maggie, stubborn like her mama, hovered in the background near the fridge, watching us both.
“What happened?” I turned the faucet on warm and pulled his hand under it.
“Slipped. The drill…” he grimaced and paused. “I had….had my hand there steadying the board and the drill slipped. The bit went straight through my thumb. I had to back it out. I think there’s still skin on the bit.”
“Bone too?”
“Prolly.” He showed me the entry and exit, one on each side of his thumb.
“Ouch. If you didn’t wanna finish the fence tonight, you coulda just faked sick.” I cleaned his thumb with soap and a white cloth, and poured peroxide over the gaping wound. His hands are calloused, fingerprints ridges stained black from years of hard outdoor labor.
He bent, resting his head on the edge of the sink.
“Puke in the sink, not on my floor please.”
“I’m ok.”
“You’re not ok.”
“I’ll be ok.”
“I know.”
“I’ve gotta finish the fence.”
“Not tonight you’re not.” As I wrapped his thumb in bandages, I made a note to grab super glue from the store this week. We’ve never kept any around.
And then he cried.