Throw Back Thursday--The Finger

 Odd looking little digit isn't it?

Background:

My Daddy was a farmer.  He wore bib overalls all the time.  He didn't wear a belt that he could just yank out of the loops and use when punishment was meted out.  We DID have a Willow tree, which could have been used for switches I suppose, but apparently Daddy wanted something that was within reach and handy.

It was called THE RUBBER HOSE.  It was the hose part off an old tire pump.  Luckily, the metal ends had been cut off or it would have been deadly.  As it was, when wielded, THE RUBBER HOSE stung like a hundred bees and left welts, but no cuts.

In the kitchen, there was a ledge with coat hooks on it, right near the table.  THE RUBBER HOSE lay, straight as a big, black snake on top of that ledge. All Daddy had to do was reach up and get it.

Usually, it wasn't ever used at the table.  A heavy, silver table knife handle was sufficient to rap knuckles if I reached for something without asking for it to be passed to me.

Our kitchen table was only about six feet long.  Daddy sat on one end, Mother on the other, nearest the stove, and I sat in the middle of the side.  Here we sat--within easy reach of each other AND the food, but, there was no reaching for food.  You had to ask, "Please pass me the bread," although it was about six inches from the top of Daddy's plate.  

I was the much awaited first girl child born to my Daddy's family in three generations.  I suppose there was much weight put on me to be brought up to be obedient, have impeccable manners, and quiet.  This darling little blond haired girl with beautiful ringlets put in her hair every morning and always in a cute dress, was not living up to their concept.  Thus, the need for strict discipline to ensure that end.

One afternoon, after a whipping from THE RUBBER HOSE, for something I do not remember--I was about six at the time.  I sneaked that odious thing outside and commenced to bury it in the garden across the drive.  I must not have been a very clever minded child as I didn't take it far away to bury it and my Mother observed me through the window.

At supper, Daddy looked up at the coat hook ledge and said, "Judy, do you know where THE RUBBER HOSE is?"

By this time, I could look him square in the eye and lie--trying to get out of a whipping--it never worked however.

"No Daddy.  Maybe someone took it and threw it away."

He got up from the table, went outside and to the flower garden, reached down and pulled that snake from the dirt.  I got as far as the living room before he caught me and gave me a couple slaps on the legs with it.  Then he calmly, went back into the kitchen and sat down to eat his supper.

Fast forward to when I was eight.

October 28--we had just walked home from The Farm, where we had attended my great grandmother's 90th birthday.  It was a lovely late afternoon and we had to get home so that Daddy could milk the cows.

Mother started supper and I laid down on the couch and fell asleep.  

It seemed like only minutes and Daddy was back inside and Mother was calling me to come to supper.  I was still very drowsy, but I walked out to the kitchen, trying to rub my eyes awake.  

I reached for my glass of milk and of course, as I often did, tipped it over.  Daddy rapped my hand with the knife handle, while Mother got up to get a towel to clean up my spill.  

I was an extremely nervous child at meal times--I wonder why?  I didn't eat much because my throat would close up and my tummy would feel sick.

Daddy looked at me and said, "Did  you wash your hands before supper?"

I looked down and they looked clean so I said, "Yes."

Daddy grabbed my hand to look at it and said, "No you didn't!" and reached up for THE RUBBER HOSE.

I took off running--this time toward the bathroom--the only room in the house with a lock on the door.  If I could just get in there and wash my hands, everything would be all right.

Just as I was about to open the door, Daddy was behind me and slammed it shut in front of me.  Then he raised his hand with THE RUBBER HOSE.  That took his hand off the door and I opened it and ran inside.  Just then, he slammed the door and the end of my right index finger was in between the door latch and the frame and it was cut off.

I started screaming from the pain and blood was spurting everywhere.

Daddy opened the door and said, "What have you done now you fool kid!?"  he turned and walked back toward the kitchen.

Mother came running in and got a washcloth wet and put it over my finger.  Of course, it wouldn't quit bleeding.  She sat me down on the toilet lid and went back out into the kitchen.

Daddy said to tie a string around it to make it stop bleeding.  Mother said we needed to go to the hospital.

This memory is as clear as if it happened yesterday.

Mother tied a string just under the cut off part and wrapped a towel around it.  Daddy picked me up and carried me to the car.  The hospital was in Durand, only about twelve miles away.  

It was a Sunday, so Mother told Daddy maybe we should stop and call and see if the hospital was open.  If it wasn't, then we would have to go on to the next town, twenty miles away.

Daddy pulled into the drive of a house of people we knew--the Foskett's- and ran inside.

When he came out he told Mother that the hospital was open and they had called the doctor to come in and meet us.

Daddy carried me in and upstairs to the operating room and laid me on the table.  The doctor and nurse were there.  I was still crying and yelling and the doctor put three numbing shot in my finger, which made me scream even louder.  Daddy almost fainted, so they made him leave.

Mother came in and sat on the other side of the table and held my left hand and kissed me and tried to comfort me.

They cleaned up the ragged wound and stitched it up.  The doctor told Mother that I probably wouldn't have a finger nail on that finger.  (Unfortunately, there must have been enough left in the nail bed to give me that awful looking, thick, nub of a nail.)

He also told Mother to keep my finger elevated above my head to help stop the throbbing pain.

They put a metal finger guard/split on my finger, wrapped it all in gauze and sent us home.

When we got home, my Grandma was there.  She had driven up, gone in the house, saw the table still set with the food.  Saw the blood all over the bathroom and knew something bad had happened, so she sat down and waited for us to get home.

Grandma pulled me onto her lap on the couch, propped my hand, high up on her shoulder and kissed my forehead and started singing softly to me.  Apparently, she stayed like that all night because when I woke up in the morning--she was still holding me in that position.
  <remember, I was her only grandchild and her Precious.>

I had to go to the doctor's office twice a week for a couple of weeks.  Each time, he'd take the bandage off, soak my finger in Iodine and then redress it.  Once or twice, he had to cut the "proud flesh" off, where it was growing out of the wound.  These visits were very painful.  The Iodine bath was awful.  

On one of these visits, when the doctor came into the room and started toward me,  I started screaming and crying and then kicked out at him.  His solution--slap me across the face.
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My short index finger has never hampered me.  The only change I had to make was learning how to use a pencil by gripping it with my thumb and middle finger and let my index finger lay on the top of the pencil.  

Of course people notice and ask and I just say it was the result of a childhood accident.  Kids notice it more than anyone and I use it to tell them how to be careful, to not slam doors, and make sure your fingers aren't sticking out when they close a door.  

I don't know why my Daddy was so severe with me.  He was never even spanked as a child, so he didn't grow up in an abusive atmosphere.  

He used THE RUBBER HOSE on me on many occasions.  The last time--I broke curfew a week before I was to be married.  He met me at the front door and hit me all over my shoulders and back.
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Remember, back in the 80's when it became popular for the psychology community to have mature children confront their parents about how they were raised?  Remember that?  

I thought that perhaps if my Daddy and I had one of those kinds of talks--it might help me.  He might be able to explain his actions and why he was so strict, critical and acted like he didn't like me.  He never treated my little sister like he had treated me.

I wasn't confrontational with him.  We were talking about things that happened back in the day and I said, "Remember when I got my finger cut off?"

"Nope," he said.  "Your Mother took care of that.  I was up north deer hunting."
            <say what?>

"Daddy, it was the night of Great Grandma's ninetieth birthday.  It was on a Sunday.  October twenty-eighth.  You couldn't have been deer hunting.  Deer season doesn't open until November fifteenth."

"Well, I was gone somewhere, because I don't remember it, except what your Mother told me."

Pretty difficult to have a confrontation or even a conversation when the other person claims they weren't even there.
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So--the moral of this story is:  there is none.  

If you had a Daddy that treated you like you were his Princess and loved you and let you know it--be very grateful.  Because if you had a critical, what you felt was an unloving Daddy, it has influenced the rest of your adult life--in the way you relate to important men in your life..and those relationships, most probably, haven't been good!