Bad Week for a Big Toe - Part 1

Most every day, while putting on my socks, I am reminded of the eventful week that I dated Regina.

It all began with a wonderful date that I had planned for the last Sunday in June after my first year of college.  Summer was full on in California and the area that we lived was hitting 105 degrees in the shade.  I had finally talked Regina into a couple dates; the first a “just the two of us” thing, and the second a group 4^th of July celebration a few days later.

The first date was set for Sunday the 30^th of June and I had it all planned; long drive to romantic Carmel-by-the-Sea; day spent walking on the white sand beach and a bit of sunbathing side by side; early dinner with a nice wine on Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey by a window seat overlooking the harbor; quiet movie at the drive-in up in Santa Cruz; yep, it was the perfect date plan.

The second date was on Thursday the 4^th of July at a picnic being put on by the company I worked for out at Lake Del Valle outside of Livermore California.  With BBQ and games, and what not.  Figured a second quick follow up date and I could set the stage for a long relationship.

And Regina was the perfect girl for summer, for school, for it all.  Strawberry hair, sparkling eyes, and wonderfully alive.  You other guys know what I am talking about.  A woman’s beauty isn’t in blemish-free peaches and cream skin, or the pert shape of her nose, or any other part of her anatomy.  A woman’s beauty is the light and life that flows through her eyes when she looks at you; the sparkle and fire that flashes deep within.  That is beauty, and as the saying goes, it isn’t merely skin deep.

And Regina looked at me that way.                                                                                                                     

Sunday finally came and I picked her up on time and on plan.  Gentlemanly held the door for her, and off we headed into what apparently was one of the most memorable days of her life.

Now, I am not being overly egotistical when I say that, but given the way she looked at me when I picked her up that morning, there was every reason to expect many months of dating bliss.  And given how short our actual dating career became, both of our dates must have made a real impression on her, not in a good way either apparently.

The drive to Carmel was wonderful, soft music that we both enjoyed on the car radio, pleasant chatting about mutual friends, and school, and family.  The weather in Carmel could not have been ordered better.  And the Beach, wow, if you haven’t been to Carmel-by-the-Sea to stroll on the long crescent shaped white sand beach, you really should find time to do so.

We laid out a blanket on the beach and stripped down to our swim suits; okay, so the anatomy of a woman isn’t entirely dismissed a young man.  And she certainly added to the view.

 And when she handed me her Coppertone I was sure that good things were on the relationship horizon.  I squirted a large dollop on my hand and set to massaging it in as close to the edges as I dared.  I had packed a small picnic lunch, some cheese and bread, fruit, and sodas which and we enjoyed that.  Our conversation just flowed so smoothly, no uncomfortable pauses, no forced “nice weather” things either.  The day simply flew past.

It was getting on time to pack up to head for dinner when I made the first mistake of our dating career.

I talked Regina into cooling off in the water and so, down to the surf we ran, splashing and enjoying the cool Pacific waters.  And no, I didn’t do any sophomorishly foolish boy thing; no knocking her down, or throwing seaweed or any other stupid stunt.  We just strolled along in the gentle breaking surf and walked all the way to the end of the beach. 

Just as we turned around, I kicked a barnacle encrusted rock just under the water‘s surface.

To say that it hurt would be an understatement of monumental proportion.  As it turned out I basically removed all of the skin and flesh from the outside of my right big toe.  Of course at the time I couldn’t see that, heck, I couldn’t see period.  My eyes were screwed up tight against the pain, and when I finally opened them, everything was distorted by the welling up of tears that completely drowned my vision.

Yep, stripped the skin and flesh from over an area that was close to ½” top to bottom and a good inch plus long.    

In saltwater.

In the roiling surf. 

Rolling saltwater filled with  grains of sand.

I tell you, even now, some 35 years later, it is one impressive looking scar.

I am ashamed to admit that it became readily apparent that I knew an entire vocabulary of words that Regina had never heard before.

But, I grew up Vandermolen tough. 

And Vandermolen tough meant that you just “walk it off”. 

So I tried to do just that; hobbling back down the beach towards our towels, leaving a large bright red stain in the sand with every right foot print. 

Teeth clenched as the beach sand assaulted what was left of the toe.

Regina, bless her delicate little heart,  really felt that we should jump in the car and find a doctor.  I, however, was having none of that. 

Heck, I’d had previous experiences with doctors and flesh wounds.  I knew that if I saw a doctor, he was going to want to stitch up my toe, and that meant cleaning the wound carefully, and anesthetizing it, and missing our dinner reservations, not to mention everything else that comes with a doctor; bills, needles, drugs, all kind of things that were not in my date plan.  So I convinced her that it was “just a scratch” and since she was a bit squeamish about blood anyway, she really hadn’t looked too close.

Grabbing our towels we headed to the restrooms to rinse off, towel down and change.

While there I washed the toe as best I could.  Then I used my Buck Folding Hunter to cut a bit of my towel off and cinched a strip of it around my toe, then put my sock on to hold it all in place.  Once done with that, and before the blood could soak through the wrapping and sock, I stuffed my foot into my shoe.

With my teeth set, I practiced pacing back and forth a bit so that when I went back out, Regina wouldn’t notice how bad I was limping, which I figured would just set her off on the whole doctor thing again.  Mothering was not what I had in mind from her.  So I practiced moving a bit easier before I headed out to meet her.

She was dressed and a vision to behold when I finally emerged from the men’s side of the changing area.  Dressed in a flowered sundress, shoulders bare and hair put up, I was glad that I had decided to forgo the foolishness of finding a doctor just to stop up the free flow of blood.  Heck, I had more where that came from and could make more anytime I needed it. 

I had bled before, lots of times, but I had never kissed Regina before and the smile she graced me with promised that I would before the evening was done.

We found our way to Monterey and dinner on the wharf.  The view of the harbor and the settling sun right outside our window-side table was fantastic.  So was the drive and close contact of the drive-in movie.  And as promised, I got to kiss her.  Can’t say as I remember what the movie was, mostly that night was a cycle between the joy of kissing her and the throbbing pain from my toe. 

After dropping Regina off at her house, I headed home, carefully removed my right foot from the shoe, and spent most of an hour trying to soak the blood saturated sock off of my foot while simultaneously cleaning out the inside of my right shoe.  After applying some Neosporin, I rewrapped the toe and went to bed.

Monday morning I awoke to a throbbing toe and bloody sheet.  Again I spent a long time soaking off the wrappings and took my first good look at my big toe. 

It looked as bad as it felt.

I could see parts of the bone through the ragged leftover bits of attached flesh.

At that point I realized that Regina really had been right, and decided I had better get to a doctor. 

Some 45 minutes later, I had been seen by a nurse, the wound had been cleaned and the doctor had just finished his exam and had ordered a tetanus shot and a shot of antibiotics when I asked him: “Well doc, what do you think?”

 He looked at me over the top of his half glasses; Stared hard is a better description, and said: “What I think is you should have gotten this foot in here yesterday when I could have stitched this up and done something about this.  But, as it is, the best I can do is give you a shot or two and you will have to wait for several months to see if your body will re-flesh the toe.”

Hated to make the call to Regina knowing that I would have to fill her in on the doctors prognosis, but hey, I had a second date planned in a couple days and had no intention of missing out on that.

After all, other than the “little unpleasantness” with the toe, it had been a great date.    

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

My father was tough.

He said: “My job is to assure your hands are well fitted to the handle of shovel and broom”.

He said: “It'd be nice if we could like each other, but if not, my job is still to raise you right.”

He said: “Just exactly at what point did that seem like a good idea to you?”

He gave us chores each morning, and every night he checked that they'd been done correctly.

He gave us discipline in corners, noses on dots; scrubbing pots, and the sting of his belt.

He gave us rules, and rules, and rules, and rules.

He insisted that we earn our money from outside jobs, not chores of family life.

He insisted that we pay for our own haircuts; buy our own bikes, camp gear, guns and tools.

He insisted that we stand up for what was right, and fess up when what we did was wrong.

He built our skills with practice and critique; and practice and review; and practice.

He built our bodies with physical labor; digging holes, sifting rock, painting walls.

He built our experience with backpacking, and hunting, and camping, and traveling.

He taught us how to glaze windows, do plumbing, wire houses, fix bikes, and rebuild cars.

He taught us the stars in the sky, birds in the fields, plants of the land, and the fish in the sea.

He taught us how to handle snakes, to feed owls, to care for rabbits, and to raise pigeons.

He formed our minds with daily discussions, with monthly challenges, and yearly appraisals.  

He formed our souls on nightly prayers, weekly church, and constant righteous living.

He formed our hearts with supportive structure, generous wisdom, and abiding love.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Mowing Grass

As a boy, I mowed my fair share of lawns.

I mowed the front yard lawn once every three weeks as a chore for the family.  I mowed the back yard once every three weeks (never the same week as the front) as a chore also.  I mowed the lawns of the frail elderly neighbors as a “request” from my dad.  I even hauled the mower around the neighborhood and mowed lawns for spending money.

Our house wasn’t the best looking one in the neighborhood, but my dad aspired to that.  He watched the neighbors as they cared for their lawns, shrubs, and yards.  He questioned them about their methods, and fertilizers, and sprays.  As a boy and young man, he mostly lived on the farms and rental places his parents occupied.  And after finally being able to buying his own house, he was driven to make it a model of what he felt a proper house should look like.  Kinda a reward I expect for all those years in places that weren’t too pretty.

He painted and tended, planted and sculpted, planned and worked, so that his property would be as good as any other on the block.  He didn’t have a chance in retrospect, but he had the desire and the drive, and he had my brothers and I.  So, my brothers and I spent hour after hour following his lead and working our chores.  I say that dad didn’t have a chance, not because he didn’t know enough, nor because he wasn’t dedicated enough, but because he had to work for a living (for himself and all of us) while the retired men whom he was competing with had all day everyday to work on their yards.

That gave them a natural (or unnatural depending on how you looked at it) advantage.

But dad watched what they did, and talked with them on how they did it, and incorporated into our weekly chores the various techniques that they employed.

I remember the day he came home after learning Mr Peck’s secret; cut the lawn two different ways.  And dad carefully explained to us boys that we would first have to cut the lawn one way side to side, then, cut it a second time at a 90 degree angle to the first cut.  That way each and every blade of grass was sure to be clipped, with none straying outside the push mowers cutting path.  We thought he was nuts.  After all, once we cut the lawn, the second pass wouldn’t be cutting anything….

And then, not too long after, he came home from work realizing that cutting the lawn at 90 degree angles meant that when people drove by on the street they would be able to see the “rows” that were set into the lawn’s growth patterns.  So from then on it was side to side on the first pass, and then at 45 degree angel on the second pass….

Now I can’t say that the way we mowed made a difference; nor can I say the time we watered did; or the any of the other specific little things he made us do.  But I can say, that later in life, every tiem I moved into a new place, and started doing those things all over again, dang if the lawn didn’t look better after a couple of months. 

Course back then, when I was a boy and would rather be climbing fences, or chasing lizards, or squashing snails…all that lawn stuff was purely a pain in the neck.

Pushmowers

Back then all that cutting was done with what was known even then (some 45 years ago) as an “old-fashioned” push mower.  One of those mowers with a long handle, two wheels, and a rotating set of helical blades that spin as the wheels are rolled forward, and free-wheels as the mower is pulled back.  Make a raspy, metallic, grinding noise they do.  Set your teeth on edge too.

Hard to push forward unless they are cleaned and oiled cause the wheels don’t want to spin.  And they jamb up wth dirt, and grass, and dust.

Hard to push cause the blades got dull or nicked, or rusty and then wouldn’t pass smoothly along the pressure/cutting bar.

Hard to push if the grass is wet and slick cause the wheels don’t want to rotate, so the cutting blades don’t rotate; and the grass blades jamb up and stop the forward motion.

Hard to push when it was hot cause the sun would expand the metal and rubber wheels and they would bind up.

Hard to push when it was cold, cause the wheel grease would cake and grab and the wheels wouldn’t spin.

Hard to push cause they were made for the cast off anchors of battleships, heavy and rust, and heavy.

Did I mention they were hard to push?

One day my brother’s and I banded together and went to see our father about how hard they were to push.  We recounted all of the difficulties getting them to work right, to keep them cleaned and oiled, and greased and sharp.  We told him that he should let us use the gas powered lawn mower that was sitting on the shelf in the garage; that we could get the job done better with gas mower.

He just said: “Nope, you boys aren’t old enough to use that gas mower yet, you just keep on using the push mower”.

The moon came and went and the earth chased around the sun, once, twice, three, maybe even four times.  All the while my brothers and I shoved and pushed that cantankerous old mower. 

We learned to wash it and dry it after every use, and oil it too.  We learned how to grease the wheels, and store it undercover.  We learned to file it sharp, and adjust the tension, and countless other things to make the mower operate smoother, to make it somewhat easier to push.

Finally one day we realized that we were older, that must mean we could use the gas mower.  So we banded together and went to our dad.  We made our case, we were older, and more careful, and could be counted on to use the gas mower right.  We smiled cause we knew that we would be out racing across the lawn with that gas mower roaring the grass into short even-cut perfection.

But dad just said “You boys are big and strong now, you can easily push that mower, there’s no need to waste the money on gas for the other one”.

I’ve always rather suspected he had some ulterior motives there.  Don’t think he cared wit one about how easy or hard it was, figure he was more concerned about the things we learned.

“A Job done right”

My dad was fond of saying “A Job Done Right, Need Never Be Done Again”.

And he used to often (and not without provocation I must admit) say “Are you listening to me boy?”

And that was all well and good, but heaven help if you actually did pay attention. 

One day after carefully cutting the front lawn; two ways, one at a 45 degree angle; and edging by hand the walkway and sidewalk; and crawling on hands and knees to weed the dandelions, and fertilizing, and watering, and raking, and sweeping; just as I was finishing up, my dad drove in the driveway from work. 

He got out of the car, looked over the job that I had done and promptly said; “Boy, you did that up right.”

Yep, that was the day I found out my dad didn’t have a sense of humor, cause I immediately replied; “Does that mean I don’t ever have to do it again?”

And he thought I didn’t listen.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Freedom

Freedom  exists at different levels

And in different forms

And makes unique advantage of selected realities.

When my brothers and I were young, we were as free as the wind.  Not in the ways of today, but in the ways of the world that we all dream of as kids. 

We lived outdoors, spring, summer, fall, and even winter.  We worked outdoors, we camped and hiked, backpacked and fished, raced and hunted.  No day passed that we didn’t live to be going somewhere; anywhere.

Most of that going included bicycles.  Now we didn’t have the bikes of today, no spring suspension, no wide tires for gravel, no soft hand grips and 27 gears.  Nope, what we had was a metal frame and leather seat; two tires and a rack to haul papers; a pedal set that connected a worn chain to knife edged gears that were limited to just five.

For joy we added old playing cards with clothespins to sound like a motorcycle at full revs.  For light at night we held a flashlight and rode single handed, at least until we could afford a small generator that was spun by the tire and made a feeble orange glow to ride by.

We worked on those things, we played on them too.  On them we flew, and we lived.  We broke free of the world and the things that dragged boys down; things like school, and baths, clean clothes, and rooms. 

Every morning started with 100 papers or more, rolled into tight tubes and rubber-bands.  Stuffed upright into a canvas bag that lay across the rack behind the seat like a saddlebag across a horse’s rump. 

Papers that on Sundays weighted over 5 pounds each and required more than one trip just to throw them all.  In the rain, the papers were further wrapped in plastic bags.  And we pedaled around town, to each of our customer’s houses and lobbed papers up onto porches, out of the rain. 

There is skill at work there.  Bike moving laterally at up to 20 miles an hour, legs pumping to keep the speed up on the slight rise, handlebars held straight as you turned your whole torso around to reach back and down to grab a paper, pull it up out of the nest of companions, swing the arm up and back, and lob the missile through the end of the porch and its opening where the wisteria vine hadn’t covered, or fling it over the hood of the car, but under the carport, or around the Christmas ornaments.

Not that tens of thousands of other boys didn’t develop the same skills.  But skill it was and it bonded us in brotherhood one to the other.  And we learned pride, and confidence from the development of it.

We lived on those bikes.  Mornings on the paper routes, after school over to our friends and home before our parents got off of work; on holidays and vacations out to the swimming hole, or to the next town to do some swapping, or maybe hit the county fair and some carnival rides.  Afternoons with fishing poles, mornings with shotguns, heck, they even served as ambulances when needed.

I grieve for the kids I see today; driven to and fro, no matter the reason or need.  Sequestered in steel and trapped in front of a movie screen.

They don’t know the wind in their hair, or the rush of blood as they hurdle down a steep hill, ever-faster at the cattle guard, or corner that must be negotiated (at pain of personal injury) on reaching the bottom.

They will never know the wonder of a pebble filled scab; or of a toe jammed in spinning spokes; or the abrasions of palms on street.

They will forever be tainted, with an impression that riding is about Saturday with the family in the park, or a sport for professionals, or (God forgive) “spinning” class at the gym.

  

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved