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 how you can forget Boy Scout Rule Number 4, to always point the
knife-edge away? Well, I momentarily forgot my scout’s upbringing and put
a significant gash in the tip of my left ring finger. Blood was squirting in
all directions; the cut was 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 try lifting 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 inches 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 deep, 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 a lesson in life I’ll never forget.
