Once, my brother almost cut off his toe. It was chicken butchering season and mom and dad had carried freshly beheaded fowl to the house to scald the flesh so we could pull out the feathers. Despite being warned, Cullen picked up the ax. And dropped it. I saw the blood spurt six feet high from my spot on the porch. I was reading a “Choose Your Own Adventure” novel and protesting the carnage. He screamed. The back door swung open, hard, banging against the house. Cullen yelled, “Oh no oh no oh no oh no,” and dad ran back inside yelling, “We need a towel! I think Cullen cut off his toe!” Tadd was crying. I was trying not to look at all the blood.
Later, they came back from the hospital. A bunch of stitches. Narrowly missed the bone. He so easily could have lost it. A few weeks later the stitches broke open and the toe healed hammer-like and stunted. Mom and dad always said he could get out of the Army with that toe, if he wanted.
Meanwhile, I only had one impressive scar: a large cut from shattered glass in the shape of South America. It was pink and blotchy then.
