Getting the Finger
I should have known better. It’s not like it hadn’t happened before. I just wasn’t thinking.
I opened the flip lid of the canister. Down inside the plastic cylinder was a roll of moist wipes. I needed them to dispense up through the slot in the lid. So I took the middle finger of my left hand to feed the beginning of the roll through the small opening in the lid. My finder slipped into the opening.
It happened – I got the finger. It was stuck. I recalled immediately this had happened before. I should have been more careful. I tried to pull my finger out, but it was painful as the pointed plastic guides gripped my finger. It was so tight. My situation reminded me of the parking lot of a drive-in movie theatre. You would never attempt trying to sneak your car in through the exit because they had these sharp metal plates that stuck up and would rip your tire, just like the plastic lid now gripping my finger. It was so tight I was losing color in my finger.
I was the only one home. I wondered if I should ring a neighbor’s bell and ask for help. Surely I could get out of this fix on my own. I got out a pair of scissors hoping I wouldn’t accidently amputate my finger though form the increasing lack of circulation I might not feel it.
I carefully cut off one of the triangular tabs and tried to back my finger out. Same results – it would rip my skin if I tried to continue. Considering which neighbor would be an option popped into my mind again. I reasoned that even though several had lived near for more than a decade I did not know them well enough. Or perhaps it was my pride.
One more try with the scissors. The blades were short and I was sort of safe. This time I would cut through the lid splitting it. Free at last!
I took a closer look at the container curious if there was a warning. “Remove Lid to Thread Wipe Through Threader Do Not Push Finger Through Opening.” I am hoping by the time I need to do this again I will recall the instructions before and not after.
Longing for Daddy
I well recall that first Father’s Day after Daddy died. It had been sixty-five days since he had drawn his last breath. Sixty-five excruciating days each filled with at least one good cry. And another milestone to get behind me: Father’s Day.
It was Saturday afternoon and I needed a few items from the grocery story. I walked in like an innocent lamb only for my emotions to be slaughtered near the greeting card display. People swarming like flies in a frenzy looking at cards laughing, reminiscing. Stabbing pain pierced my heart as I moved as quickly as I could as far away as possible. I didn’t breathe until I was in the back of the store safe from the embarrassment of a wall-eyed-fit from a daddy’s girl. I held myself together. I had already practiced. At his funeral.
“It isn’t fair” I told myself. “They have a dad and I don’t.” I wallowed in self-pity through the next day too staying avoiding church where the focus would be on Fathers.
I’ve gotten over it. OK I’ve sort of gotten over it. I’m glad other people still have dads. I am thankful that I had mine for forty-five years. Many people get less with their dads. Some never knew theirs. When I think about it, and “think” I do, I am blessed, immensely blessed.
Today is another Father’s Day and the main attraction this week on social sites is talking about our dads, posting their pictures as our own profile picture, and telling stories about them. The problem is those stories will not be easily accessible if at all a month from now.
What’s the story about your dad? Was he strong? a hard worker? Did he have a sense of humor? Was he athletic? What was your relationship like?
A story tells more than meets the eye. The term “show don’t tell” means let the story itself do the talking. For example, if you recall what I’ve written in this post you can easily come to some conclusions about our relationship which I never mentioned. I called him “Daddy,” not “father” nor “Fred.” There are more clues.
Write something about your dad. A sentence or a paragraph will be meaningful to future generations. I promise! Save it where someone else can find it, like a buried treasure.
The following poem was written after returning to my parent’s home for the first time the month after his funeral. A poem can be a story too. Shortly after I wrote it, the hometown newspaper where I had grown up published it. Daddy, a prolific writer would have been proud. In his later years he probably wrote a poem every day.
Longing for Daddy
I looked around the room for signs of you there,
No scattered newspapers were heaped around your chair.
The TV wasn’t blaring with the latest score,
The reality was evident on earth you are no more.
I walked around the house as I tried to take it in,
My eyes beheld your things and the places you had been.
The stacks of books and papers are all around the desk,
I absorbed all I could and found comfort in the mess!
I touched your shirts hanging lifeless on the rod,
Not seeing you wearing them still seems odd.
I looked at the sympathy cards and the things people said,
I cried when a woman wrote she heard you were dead.
“Dead” seemed so harsh, and it stung my heart so,
You are no longer here, but I don’t want to let you go.
You will live forever, if only in my heart,
And your life a legacy, of which I have a part!
Belinda Howard Smith
May 13, 2000
Just My Imagination
My ten year-old granddaughter Sara came to stay with me for a few days. We were out in the backyard watering flowers and we sat down on the wicker loveseat for a break. The loveseat backs to a tree-lined bed of greenery and flowers near two side chairs and two occasional tables.
As I surveyed our newly landscaped yard from that vantage point I remarked to Sara, “If I was a kid, I would have so much fun playing in this backyard. This would be my living room and over there (pointing to a wrought-iron bistro set) would be my kitchen. The paths would take me to a friend’s house to her kitchen over there” (referring to another seating area).
As I imagined my childhood play Sara listened with a slight uncertain expression. Though she didn’t communicate it, I had the feeling she wasn’t quite sure of this “pretend” talk.
For a fleeting moment I was in the imagination of my inner child, a place I hadn’t been in a long, long time. It was kind of nice. Like revisiting a beloved friend or familiar place and everything being exactly the same.
When I was younger I sectioned off areas of my parent’s backyard with small rocks and sticks to designate rooms of a house and played for hours with my dolls. I could make a great mud pie – it’s all about the right consistency of dirt and water.
As I sat reminiscing and thinking about “if I was a kid I would…” I realized how very different my generation is to my grandchild’s. When I was in high school blow dryers were just coming on the scene and the microwave oven was years in the future.
Sara’s life has always had the Internet, digital pictures, instant messaging, and video games. Everyday life doesn’t demand that she use her imagination. Now that, I cannot imagine!
