Telling Stories

There is always something to learn

Photo by: Getty Images (@gettyimages) | Unsplash Photo Community

“How did you get those scars?”

“Which one are you referring to?”

“I can only see the one on your hand. How many do you have?” Young Jimmy was always the curious type.

“On my body? Four from stitches, a couple from burns. They were earth shattering at the time they occurred but now, not so much.” Jimmy’s grandfather was happy to have this discussion with his grandson.

“Which one hurt the most?”

“Hmm. There are two. The first one I don’t remember much as I was only three but I gather it was quite traumatic. My hand went through an old wringer washing machine. Well, most of my hand went through. My baby finger got caught and stayed behind.”

“A wringer washing machine?”

“It is an old fashioned clothes washer. There were two parts to it. One part was a big barrel where the clothes were swished around much like a washing machine today. The barrel didn’t have a way of removing the water from the clothes like the one your mom uses so you had to reach into the water and pull out the wet clothes. Above the machine were two rollers that were attached to the washing machine. You had to start the piece of clothing through the rollers. As the rollers turned they would squeeze the water out of the clothing. Once done the clothing could be hung on the clothes line to dry.”

“And your hand went through except for your baby finger,” Jimmy said as looked at the scar on his grandfather’s hand.

“I was too close to the side where I was helping my mom. My small hand got caught in the roller. These fingers went through the roller. I wasn’t strong enough to pull my hand out. The emergency lift went off but not before my finger got caught.”

“That must have hurt.”

“I’m sure it did but I don’t remember. My mom said it was interesting getting the stitches.”

“Why is that?”

“I suppose my finger looked weird, all bent and bloody. I probably thought it was going to fall off or something. It would have been quite painful. The needle and the stitches at the hospital would have added more pain. I was only three at the time. We only went to the hospital when we were really sick or something happened like with my finger. It was pretty serious business going to a hospital.”

Jimmy thought for a minute before asking, “And the other scars?”

“The one on the inside of my leg,” his grandfather started, pointing to a spot high on his leg. “We were having fun jumping on and off beds to get away from my mother’s cousin as part of a game we were playing. I jumped off one bed hoping to make it to the door but I landed on the corner of an old steel army cot.”

Jimmy blanched. “That must have hurt.”

“It did but what was worse was the amount of blood. I had never seen that much before. It was quite frightening.”

“I’ve never had stitches,” said Jimmy quietly. “Nor anything else.”

“I know,” replied his grandpa, “and if you are careful and lucky you won’t get any.”

“Lucky?”

“They happen when we least expect them.”

“I am glad you are okay,” said Jimmy as he hugged his Grandpa.

When his grandson stepped back, he said to Jimmy, “You will get plenty of scars over your lifetime. Most will just be stories later but some may haunt you. It’s what you do with those memories that will make the difference in your life.”

Jimmy nodded as he held the stories of the scars in his mind. “I think I want a cookie,” he said as he wandered off to the kitchen.

“And now he has some of my memories,” observed his grandfather feeling the warmth that their connection brought him. “There will be others when he is ready.”