It’s funny how things or people from the past pop into your mind. Last week, an incident happened to me that triggered such a memory.
I didn’t have a paring knife that would slice warm butter and I like to tinker around the kitchen. By gum, I thought, I am going to go buy myself a sharp knife. So I went to Home Goods and tracked down the meanest, scariest looking knife on the rack. Jack the Ripper would have liked it. The knife was razor sharp.
But.
You know how you get used to dull knives in your drawer and forget Boy Scout Rule Number 4, to always point the knife-edge away? Well, I momentarily forgot and put a significant gash in the tip of my left ring finger. Blood was squirting in all directions; the cut was fairly deep and right on the fingertip. I knew it would be sore. Then I remembered Sgt. Dawson, the father of my good friend, Mike.
Sgt. Dawson was with the West Virginia State Police, and since my Dad was an FBI agent, they were fairly close. But Sgt. Dawson was a by the book, military type, He spoke in a deep, gruff voice and I hated it when I called Mike and Sgt. Dawson answered.
“Is Mike there?” (Imagine a tiny, squeaky little voice”)
“I’ll get him!” (Imagine the roaring, booming voice of an angry troll under the bridge).
I had the utmost respect for Sgt. Dawson and was always intimidated by him, but one day, he taught me an important lesson.
Dave, Mike and I had spent the night at Mr. Gladwell’s camp on the Greenbrier River. We had been wading for smallmouth when lunchtime arrived. I went back to camp and procured my lunch, which consisted of a Pepsi, a pack of Nabs and a can of Vienna Sausages.
This was somewhere around 1962 before Armour had invented the pop-top lids on cans. Rather, you had to get a can opener and open it yourself. The only can opener we had at the camp was one of those “poke it through the top” openers that you had wiggle around to pry the top off. I poked and tugged and got the lid about three-quarters the way off when the can opener ceased functioning with any degree of effectiveness. The jagged lid was still clinging to the can.
“Hmmm! I’ll just lift the top up with my thumb,” I decided.
Yep, you know what happened. The gash in my thumb went nearly to the bone and it was about two inched in length. I was bleeding like a stuck pig and unsure what to do next when who should happen by, but Sgt. Dawson. He was checking on us and quickly saw my predicament.
“Jimmie, you’re not going to like this, but I want you to put your thumb in this glass of salt water,” he said, after pouring all the contents of a saltshaker into a glass. “It might sting a little, but it will take the soreness out and help the wound heal.”
I did as I instructed. It burned only slightly, then felt like a normal thumb, other than the glass of water by now was crimson red. After about a ten-minute soak, Sgt. Dawson dried my wound with a paper towel then put a Band-Aid securely around my thumb.
The bleeding stopped immediately, I never had stitches, my thumb healed in a matter of days, it was never sore and this was a nasty cut.
Remembering all that last week, I poured salt in glass of water, soaked my finger, dried it and wrapped it tightly with a Band-Aid. It was never sore and healed within three days.
Thanks, Sgt. Dawson. That was something I’ll never forget.