The Lawn Mower

The Lawn Mower 
     by Hot Water Leigh 

When I hit twelve my dad designated me chief lawn mower of our Altona Village yard. The half acre of land took enough time from my precious independence and restless self to make me wish to finish quickly. Especially in this case, since we were, as a family, leaving for Abbotsford, British Columbia the next morning. What with edibles to buy, such as chocolate bars and thrills and jawbreakers, and paraphernalia of one kind or another to gather and sort through, I had less than normal patience with the mowing. Almost done, with only the ditch fronting our yard to fiinish, having decided to mow it parallel to the sides of the ditch, and being on one of those sides at the moment, the mower suddenly became tippy and threatened to fall right over. This would have meant that sickening (to an under experienced boy) occurrence of the contraption turned over on its back, blade spinning wildly at unimaginable speeds, indecently, with the wrong side facing heaven and not earth! Without thought or hesitation I saved the day and kept up appearances, kept the machine operating as it should, right side up. But to do so I thrust my hand downward (still quite a tender young hand, of course) and grabbed the bottom edge of the mower platform, with my fingers and palm underneath. And got whacked by the blade, which still turned full speed. The cut I got from it extended from on my middle finger of the left hand down diagonally through almost a third of my palm. Blood everywhere, my little finger, my pinky, hanging down at a strange angle and pre adolescent Dougie howling for nurse. Roaring towards the house. Not that I felt much pain, but like the boy in Frost’s “Out Out,” when he reaches too close to the buzz saw and loses his hand, I felt quiet and calm while still yelling blue murder.
Once mother realized the severity of the injury to her second oldest she would have immediately rushed me to the hospital for stitches and surgical care, wouldn’t she? . No. Not Mary Reimer. She took the road less travelled by. Mother boiled water, poured it into a basin along with a quarter cup of Rawleigh’s Kreo (commonly administered to ulcerated cows’ udders and smelling almost exactly like the creosote on hydro poles and railway ties), and had me stick my hand into the scalding water and keep it in there. I did that. A half hour later, with my finger and wound the gray of boiled beef, she had me remove my hand and wrapped it with a strip of cotton, tied so the finger was lifted back up into place. 
    I have no memory of any pain, though I have many memories of Kreo healing various cuts and bruises and sores and bleeding’s in the family over the years. With my hand bandaged, though without having accumulated any treats for the trip, with my spirit still reasonably high and with the entire family gathered in our 1954 Mercury, off we went west in search of paradise. One month of joy and freedom, with not a single lawn to mow. 
     When we got to Banff, we made a decision to travel through to Radium Hot Springs. I was concerned that they would not let me into this pool. Oh! I wanted so badly to get into that steaming water. There was a guard, but he did not say anything even though he noticed my bandages. I held my breath walking by him but he hardly took notice. And we all went in. After a few hours of soaking, the family packed up and left. I do not remember where we stayed that night. It may have been Revelstoke, or Golden, maybe Merit or even Kelowna, but when I woke up next morning I felt that the wound had done some healing. I was certain that improvements had occurred while I slept. Sure enough, when we changed the bandages mother said, “Douglas, you are very lucky to still have your little finger and I think that it is healing very well!