Midnight Mutterings | Hand II

In this column, I’m writing about a FAR less serious hand injury that happened to me two nights ago and is already much improved.

Now eighty years after my brother’s accident, I had a clumsy moment with firewood a couple of nights ago and now the small finger on my left hand (the one that went Wee! Wee! Wee! All the Way Home from the Market, or would have if it had been a toe) hurts a bit.

I’m pretty sure it’s not broken and it’s hurting less today. It’s not blue or swollen and not likely to put me in a ward of WW II injured soldiers even overnight.

In fact my accident is only mildly inconvenient. I am, however discovering how useful my pinky is, even on my left hand. Tonight I went to a neighborhood potluck and discovered that my little linger is essential for carrying a fully loaded plate of delicious food. My favorite—that is: food cooked by someone else. That brings up the inconvenience of having to abandon my food to a table with virtual strangers that I’ve known for 30+ years while I got something to drink which I had to carry in my fully functional right hand.

While I was typing that last paragraph, friends staying in a little cabin I have down the road, texted to say there was a problem with the toilet, that it wasn’t exactly running but was making noises in the pipes to the sink and shower in the cabin. So I interrupted this inane column to go and pretend I knew what was going on in the plumbing and water supply lines by turning enough stuff on and off and making those little tutting noises in the back of my throat, I got them set up for the night. I hope. Running water is such a luxury. I lived off grid for three years decades ago, and recognize that such luxuries come at a high price. Usually in the middle of the night.

But back to my pinkie. The real problem: Typing. I’m a terrible typist in the best of circumstances, and tonight it’s harder than usual. Especially with the words that have a’s in them and’ z’s, ‘Amazing’ is double hard for example. And ‘example’ is not totally without pain, as my fourth finger is a little tender too. But not up into the knuckle, like the little finger. I’m glad Rose Cat is in Bellingham with her sister Molly where she doesn’t hear my swearing. Bad words make her anxious and her concern causes her her to stare at me and butt my sore fingers while I try to think of words without a’s’and z’s, or even s’s which is harder than you might think. Molly Cat is indifferent to my pain. All her sympathy is saved for Jay, who is her person.

Knowing tomorrow will arrive soon with it’s water problems still unsolved, I’d better start my beauty sleep in preparation. Now is the time to regret I never gave birth to plumbers, who would probably be living thousands of miles from Orcas Island, even if I had. If you tell me of a great local plumber, I swear not to tell a living soul. Pinky promise.