A Humble Beginning

Gary D. Grossman

Meat For Tea: The Valley Review 18(2) 2024

My earliest recollection involves an emergency room doctor who put eleven stitches at the base of my right pinkie after I poked it into the rotating main gear of a stationary exercise bike. I was eighteen months old, and clearly unaware of the consequences of sticking a finger into a revolving metal object capable of amputation. Who knows what kind of gumbo simmers in a toddler’s brain, but I’m sure my utmost thought was “what the fuck” while actually screaming “agggghhhhh, bleeeeeee, rreeecckkkk.”. But that last bit of gibberish was written solely to walk you further into this story; even as a toddler I was quite verbal and likely was just shouting “fingers, hand”.

I recall this scene as clearly as a sun-sparkled day through my study window. I’m sitting in Mom’s lap on an exam table and Grampa is sitting nearby, while the emergency room doctor reunites the lacerated skin on my finger. The Doc attempts to distract me by saying “one railroad track, two railroad tracks, three railroad tracks — pretty soon the train will come through”. But six decades later, I am a bit surprised by the clear and strong recollection, despite the scar: now faint as a distant star.

Perhaps, because a worried parental song titled “Don’t Do That,”, played on repeat throughout my youth, the memory is now an indelible page in my family ledger. Alternatively, do the small details of our remembrances really matter? Was I actually in a chair rather than on an examination…