That almost was not the case last weekend. Long story short, I got a little too fancy with my kitchen prowess and came very close to a finger amputation. Yeah, that's the last thing I wanted to do. Visit a hospital in the middle of a pandemic.
I pledge to be more careful. I can remember another time where I was in a "conflicted" place with my hand.
Bear with me. We're going to circle the block a couple of times before we stop at our handy destination. But, as the picture above shows, we have the ideal vehicle to travel in. This 1956 Buick.
In the same manner in which I have not driven anything but a Toyota, my father relied on Buick for all his automobile needs. While the design changed from year to year, our family car was always the same. A big, roomy, often clunky Buick. Such loyalty to an American car manufacturer would be rare today.
Sunday afternoons were usually "let's take a ride" day. Sometimes, the cemetery. Other times, we'd pile in to call on a relative. Maybe as far as Suffolk County to see my mother's sister and my cousins there. Often the trips were so spontaneous that nobody bothered to check first if anybody was home. But, mostly, these sneak attacks were provided with a 24 hour warning. Mom would call on Saturday.
"You home tomorrow?"
That's the way it was done. We'd crowd into whatever Buick we had at the time. Sometimes even my dog Tuffy came along. She's hop up on the back window for some sun. Inevitably, Dad would have to stop short at some point and the dog would go flying off onto the floor of the back seat. No worries. She'd shake it off and jump back to her perch.
A lot of the people we visited on Sundays were sometimes not relatives. To this day, I don't know how my folks were connected to some of them. Maybe they were friends from childhood or school. Or work. I had no clue, except I frequently got thrown together with their kids and was told to become an instant lifelong friend. Indeed, after I hit my teen years, I don't think I saw any of these pals ever again. And, frankly, my parents stopped hanging with their parents as well.
What's this got to do with your hand, Len? Keep reading.
I recently found a photo of one bunch that I had to commune with. Their parents were Joe and Dotty. The boy's name was Joseph. I'm looking at the girls and drawing a complete blank. Sally? Eileen? Myrtle? I got nothing. But, there I was cavorting around a pool with my best friends for life. Meanwhile, our folks are off to the side someplace. Smoking, drinking beer, and playing cards.
This family lived in Floral Park out on Long Island and I dreaded our Sunday excursions there. Beyond the kids I was forced to play with, the dad was a little, well, creepy. A few years before, he had been involved in an accident at work.
The result? He lost the middle three fingers of one hand. Seriously. In between the pinky and the thumb, he had three small stumps. Invariably, when we would sit down to dinner, my place setting was always right next to his hand. I couldn't stand looking at him. And, at the same time, I couldn't stop.
Can we go home yet?
One day, I was particularly bored by all this. My nine-year-old little mind needed a change of scenery. I certainly wanted to get away from the amazing non-hand. I sought some alone time in Dad's Buick parked at the curb.
It was a hot day as I sat behind the steering wheel and pretended to drive far, far away from Stumpy. I wanted some fresh air, so I rolled down the window.
Yep, this was the days before electric controls. Then I decided to roll up the window. Roll down. Roll up. Roll down. Roll up.
On the last roll up, my right hand was where it shouldn't be.
I rolled the window up on my fingers. And suddenly had no clue how to extricate myself from this mess. I had only one resource.
I screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
Unfortunately, everybody in Stumpy's house had gone out to the backyard.
I was stuck for probably no more than five minutes. But, it seemed like days before anybody heard me. My dad and Stumpy came running out of the backyard. The Jaws of Life were not needed. My dad simply got into the car and lowered the window. And I got one of the standard childhood reprimands.
"Stop touching things."
Check.
I was more embarrassed than in pain. I looked up at Stumpy who had a huge grin on his face. He found humor in it all.
"If you're not careful, you're going to wind up like me!"
He held his non-hand up in front of my eyes. It was like Frankenstein had popped out of the bushes in a horror movie. I wanted to scream all over again. But simply recoiled in silence. I looked longingly at my father.
CAN WE PLEASE GO HOME NOW????
And, last Sunday, I came close one more time to replicating what Stumpy did at work.
Gulp.
Dinner last night: General Tso's Beef and fried rice from Mandarette.
Bear with me. We're going to circle the block a couple of times before we stop at our handy destination. But, as the picture above shows, we have the ideal vehicle to travel in. This 1956 Buick.
In the same manner in which I have not driven anything but a Toyota, my father relied on Buick for all his automobile needs. While the design changed from year to year, our family car was always the same. A big, roomy, often clunky Buick. Such loyalty to an American car manufacturer would be rare today.
Sunday afternoons were usually "let's take a ride" day. Sometimes, the cemetery. Other times, we'd pile in to call on a relative. Maybe as far as Suffolk County to see my mother's sister and my cousins there. Often the trips were so spontaneous that nobody bothered to check first if anybody was home. But, mostly, these sneak attacks were provided with a 24 hour warning. Mom would call on Saturday.
"You home tomorrow?"
That's the way it was done. We'd crowd into whatever Buick we had at the time. Sometimes even my dog Tuffy came along. She's hop up on the back window for some sun. Inevitably, Dad would have to stop short at some point and the dog would go flying off onto the floor of the back seat. No worries. She'd shake it off and jump back to her perch.
A lot of the people we visited on Sundays were sometimes not relatives. To this day, I don't know how my folks were connected to some of them. Maybe they were friends from childhood or school. Or work. I had no clue, except I frequently got thrown together with their kids and was told to become an instant lifelong friend. Indeed, after I hit my teen years, I don't think I saw any of these pals ever again. And, frankly, my parents stopped hanging with their parents as well.
What's this got to do with your hand, Len? Keep reading.
I recently found a photo of one bunch that I had to commune with. Their parents were Joe and Dotty. The boy's name was Joseph. I'm looking at the girls and drawing a complete blank. Sally? Eileen? Myrtle? I got nothing. But, there I was cavorting around a pool with my best friends for life. Meanwhile, our folks are off to the side someplace. Smoking, drinking beer, and playing cards.
This family lived in Floral Park out on Long Island and I dreaded our Sunday excursions there. Beyond the kids I was forced to play with, the dad was a little, well, creepy. A few years before, he had been involved in an accident at work.
The result? He lost the middle three fingers of one hand. Seriously. In between the pinky and the thumb, he had three small stumps. Invariably, when we would sit down to dinner, my place setting was always right next to his hand. I couldn't stand looking at him. And, at the same time, I couldn't stop.
Can we go home yet?
One day, I was particularly bored by all this. My nine-year-old little mind needed a change of scenery. I certainly wanted to get away from the amazing non-hand. I sought some alone time in Dad's Buick parked at the curb.
It was a hot day as I sat behind the steering wheel and pretended to drive far, far away from Stumpy. I wanted some fresh air, so I rolled down the window.
Yep, this was the days before electric controls. Then I decided to roll up the window. Roll down. Roll up. Roll down. Roll up.
On the last roll up, my right hand was where it shouldn't be.
I rolled the window up on my fingers. And suddenly had no clue how to extricate myself from this mess. I had only one resource.
I screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
Unfortunately, everybody in Stumpy's house had gone out to the backyard.
I was stuck for probably no more than five minutes. But, it seemed like days before anybody heard me. My dad and Stumpy came running out of the backyard. The Jaws of Life were not needed. My dad simply got into the car and lowered the window. And I got one of the standard childhood reprimands.
"Stop touching things."
Check.
I was more embarrassed than in pain. I looked up at Stumpy who had a huge grin on his face. He found humor in it all.
"If you're not careful, you're going to wind up like me!"
He held his non-hand up in front of my eyes. It was like Frankenstein had popped out of the bushes in a horror movie. I wanted to scream all over again. But simply recoiled in silence. I looked longingly at my father.
CAN WE PLEASE GO HOME NOW????
And, last Sunday, I came close one more time to replicating what Stumpy did at work.
Gulp.
Dinner last night: General Tso's Beef and fried rice from Mandarette.
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