I walked crosslots, feeling giddy and free after weeks of recovery from a traumatic injury, that damaged not just my hand, but my sense of independence. Took some time to get past that fragile state, where sudden bouts of crying and startled jumpiness prevailed.
Alone I went down across the field, held my shoes high while feeling my way through the swale, and falling suddenly into the brook, unseen through the tall sawgrass. How I laughed, well again at last.
Long ago Old Man Farnsworth put up a five strand barbed wire fence, with woven wire to boot, keeping his cows in his own pasture before the days of electric fencers. Long gone, he kept me in, too, as one handed climbing over seemed imprudent. I finally found a high place and squirmed under, also finding nettles.
Beautiful, tall pink thistles, Queen Anne’s Lace, and enormous sprawling juniper prevailed.
Back on the dirt road over in the hollow, I grinned at my dogs and walked on, content that the worst of this lies behind me and I am on to new adventures.
So many of you have asked, “How’s your hand?”, I am happy to report that, although I still have a splint and cannot use it, it is on the mend! The stories of cables and fingers, corn choppers and hands, legs thrust out to show me the long scar of a skilsaw dropped, have been ongoing. Take a little more time, stay safe.