Mah Fightin’ Finger

Scars

I’ve been cheating a bit at this years NaNoWriMo. I’m doing the writing, but it’s not a novel. I’m writing a personal history (sounds slightly less ridiculous than “memoir”). A friend posted on Facebook that it was the anniversary of the Jonestown massacre, and that reminded me that it was also the anniversary of my family moving from northern Indiana to the tiny not-even-a-town Metamora, in southern Indiana.

We moved on November 18, and on the 19th, I crushed my hand in the rusty gears of an antique cotton gin. It was sitting on the porch of the house we’d rented, and the big kids were trying to loosen the gears. Don’t ask me why. I guess it seemed like a good idea? I put my hand on the gear, intending to help, at the exact moment the gears finally loosened and moved. My hand was was crushed, and I ended up getting a bunch of stitches. The ring finger was the worst, but the most visible scars are on mah fightin’ finger.

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