emotion feelings guitars hurt Injuries music Restore/Recover

Under the Knife

It will be the first time and compared to other injuries I think it’s minor. Right after it happened my first reaction was, of course, to look at it. It was at that precise moment that I knew it wasn’t just a scratch.

My wife knew that it required an emergency room visit and I reluctantly agreed. After a lengthy 5 1/2 hour wait I found out exactly how bad it was; it would need the attention of an orthopedic surgeon.

I’m a musician and I play lead and rhythm guitar in a couple of local bands and an injury like mine can cause an undue amount of stress. Not to mention the jitters one might get when they find out they need a CT scan and surgery.

And yet, I keep thinking of how minor it is compared to what others have had to endure. Even when told that I need to be extremely careful with my injury because of a higher threat of infection, due to my age I guess.

Surgery will take place on Wednesday, September 15. If all goes well and I’m able, I will play guitar with my band on the following Saturday at a local eatery. If I can’t play, I at least hope to be there to hear them without me. I’ll consider it a treat to be a listener and will certainly be enjoying a cold New England IPA or two.

The Culprit
The Injured Finger (Shortly after being examined by the hand surgeon)
A New England IPA
fall fiction human hurt Parenting writing

The Park

The Daily Post Writing 101 Assignment was writing something from three different points of view. The prompt: “A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.” Here then is my rendering from three different points of veiw; first the man, then the woman, lastly the old knitter. 


Holding her hand was like holding on to a warm wet sponge. But it didn’t keep him from gripping it harder as he noticed the red sweater. Terrifying, suffocating, he could still feel the weight of it covering his head. Could still feel the strong grip of those giant hands clasping around his waist. That little red sweater an old lady was knitting, she was sitting on a park bench as they walked by, knitting and singing something, a lullaby? “Hush little baby don’t you cry, momma’s gonna find you….” His thoughts trailed off, the wet sponge moved up to his elbow and he looked down at it, watched as it materialized into a hand, a diamond sparkled, the hand belonged to the only woman he had ever loved, the diamond ring, the only ring he had ever given to any woman. He slowed as they moved past the old lady, the red sweater, that lullaby, why now? It had been over 45-years ago, they found him wrapped in it, in a box, outside the door of the old Catholic church. He started to cry, something he had never done before.


She could never explain nor understand why her left hand sweated when being held. This was the worst it had ever been and she was afraid the brand new diamond engagement ring she was wearing would slip off. She gripped his hand a little tighter, embarrased by the amount of salty water she knew was emanating from her palm onto his. But he never seemed to mind, had never asked her about it. She thought he would for sure now. The old woman knitting there on the park bench, a child’s sweater, red, she suddenly remembered. Sweat started pouring out of her palm like a river, how could he not notice? She remembered how hot it had been that day, unusally so for late autumn, so many years ago, she was playing under the big oak tree, her favorite spot, when she noticed a large squirrel sitting on one of the lower branches, wearing a red sweater. Funny, but not odd to a little girl who loved squirrels. She picked up the largest acorn she could find and tossed it up to the squirrel who caught it with one quick swipe in its bushy tail. She smiled, remembering how silly the squirrel looked wearing a red sweater. The sound of someone blowing their nose brought her back, it was her fiance, and he seemed to be crying.


It was time for her daily walk to the park, her favorite bench, the late autumn sunshine felt as warm as a sweater. Her knitting bag (with an apple and one large peanut butter cookie inside) seemed to get heavier and heavier with each passing day. She thought it might be the extra large cookie, or the big Honey Crisp apple that made it heavier today. She forgot about the pain as she began walking the four blocks to the park. Arriving at the park she saw Mr. Devonshire again, always snooping around that large oak tree for something she knew he’d never find. He noticed her and walked hurriedly away, She never saw him sitting on her favorite bench under the oak. If he ever were to be sitting there when she arrived she would most certainly have him removed. She settled down on the well worn bench, noticing a couple walking towards her in the distance. As she began knitting something reminded her of an old lullaby her mother used to sing to her: “Hush little baby don’t you cry, momm’s gonna find you…” Her thoughts were interrupted as the couple came into focus just in front of her, they were holding hands, and slowed as they passed. She noticed how the young lady seemed to be gripping the man’s arm ever so tightly, and he seemed to be crying. She couldn’t stop the tears. The red sweater was complete.