to warn us. Attending the country club’s Fourth of July celebration,
we were told how one of his Navy buddies had been disfigured for life when a cherry bomb exploded in his lap. “Blew his balls
right off the map,” he said. “Take a second and imagine what that must have felt like!” Racing to the farthest edge of the
golf course, I watched the remainder of the display with my hands between my legs.
Fireworks were hazardous, but thunderstorms were even worse. “I had a friend, used to be a very bright, good-looking guy.
He was on top of the world until the day he got struck by lightning. It caught him right between the eyes while he was trout
fishing and cooked his brain just like you’d roast a chicken. Now he’s got a metal plate in his forehead and can’t even chew
his own food; everything has to be put in a blender and taken through a straw.”
If the lightning was going to get me, it would have to penetrate walls. At the first hint of a storm I ran to the basement,
crouching beneath a table and covering my head with a blanket. Those who watched from their front porches were fools. “The
lightning can be attracted by a wedding ring or even the fillings in your teeth,” my father said. “The moment you let down
your guard is guaranteed to be the day it strikes.”
In junior high I signed up for shop class, and our first assignment was to build a napkin holder. “You’re not going to be
using a table saw, are you?” my father asked. “I knew a guy, a kid about your size, who was using a table saw when the blade
came loose, flew out of the machine, and sliced his face right in half.” Using his index finger, my father drew an imaginary
line from his forehead to his chin. “The guy survived, but nobody wanted anything to do with him. He turned into an alcoholic
and wound up marrying a Chinese woman he’d ordered through a catalog. Think about it.” I did.
My napkin holder was made from found boards and, once finished, weighed in at close to seven pounds. My book-shelves were
even worse. “The problem with a hammer,” I was told, “is that the head can fly off at any moment and, boy, let me tell you,
you’ve never imagined pain like that.”
After a while we began to wonder if my father had any friends who could still tie their own shoes or breathe without the aid
of a respirator. With the exception of the shoe salesman, we’d never seen any of these people, only heard about them whenever
one of us attempted to deep-fry chicken or operate the garbage disposal. “I’ve got a friend who buys a set of gloves and throws
one of them away. He lost his right hand doing the exact same thing you’re doing. He had his arm down the drain when the cat
rubbed against the switch to the garbage disposal. Now he’s wearing clip-on ties and having the restaurant waiters cut up
his steak. Is that the kind of life you want for yourself?”
He allowed me to mow the lawn only because he was too cheap to pay a landscaper and didn’t want to do it himself. “What happened,”
he said, “is that the guy slipped, probably on a pile of crap, and his leg got caught up in the blade. He found his foot,
carried it to the hospital, but it was too late to sew it back on. Can you imagine that? The guy drove fifteen, twenty miles
with his foot in his lap.”
Regardless of the heat, I mowed the lawn wearing long pants, knee-high boots, a football helmet, and a pair of goggles. Before
starting, I scouted the lawn for rocks and dog feces, slowly combing the area as if it were mined. Even then I pushed the
mower haltingly, aways fearing that this next step might be my last.
Nothing bad ever happened, and within a few years I was mowing in shorts and sneakers, thinking of the supposed friend my
father had used to illustrate his warning. I imagined this man jumping into his car and pressing on the accelerator with his
bloody stump, a warm foot settled in his lap like a
we were told how one of his Navy buddies had been disfigured for life when a cherry bomb exploded in his lap. “Blew his balls
right off the map,” he said. “Take a second and imagine what that must have felt like!” Racing to the farthest edge of the
golf course, I watched the remainder of the display with my hands between my legs.
Fireworks were hazardous, but thunderstorms were even worse. “I had a friend, used to be a very bright, good-looking guy.
He was on top of the world until the day he got struck by lightning. It caught him right between the eyes while he was trout
fishing and cooked his brain just like you’d roast a chicken. Now he’s got a metal plate in his forehead and can’t even chew
his own food; everything has to be put in a blender and taken through a straw.”
If the lightning was going to get me, it would have to penetrate walls. At the first hint of a storm I ran to the basement,
crouching beneath a table and covering my head with a blanket. Those who watched from their front porches were fools. “The
lightning can be attracted by a wedding ring or even the fillings in your teeth,” my father said. “The moment you let down
your guard is guaranteed to be the day it strikes.”
In junior high I signed up for shop class, and our first assignment was to build a napkin holder. “You’re not going to be
using a table saw, are you?” my father asked. “I knew a guy, a kid about your size, who was using a table saw when the blade
came loose, flew out of the machine, and sliced his face right in half.” Using his index finger, my father drew an imaginary
line from his forehead to his chin. “The guy survived, but nobody wanted anything to do with him. He turned into an alcoholic
and wound up marrying a Chinese woman he’d ordered through a catalog. Think about it.” I did.
My napkin holder was made from found boards and, once finished, weighed in at close to seven pounds. My book-shelves were
even worse. “The problem with a hammer,” I was told, “is that the head can fly off at any moment and, boy, let me tell you,
you’ve never imagined pain like that.”
After a while we began to wonder if my father had any friends who could still tie their own shoes or breathe without the aid
of a respirator. With the exception of the shoe salesman, we’d never seen any of these people, only heard about them whenever
one of us attempted to deep-fry chicken or operate the garbage disposal. “I’ve got a friend who buys a set of gloves and throws
one of them away. He lost his right hand doing the exact same thing you’re doing. He had his arm down the drain when the cat
rubbed against the switch to the garbage disposal. Now he’s wearing clip-on ties and having the restaurant waiters cut up
his steak. Is that the kind of life you want for yourself?”
He allowed me to mow the lawn only because he was too cheap to pay a landscaper and didn’t want to do it himself. “What happened,”
he said, “is that the guy slipped, probably on a pile of crap, and his leg got caught up in the blade. He found his foot,
carried it to the hospital, but it was too late to sew it back on. Can you imagine that? The guy drove fifteen, twenty miles
with his foot in his lap.”
Regardless of the heat, I mowed the lawn wearing long pants, knee-high boots, a football helmet, and a pair of goggles. Before
starting, I scouted the lawn for rocks and dog feces, slowly combing the area as if it were mined. Even then I pushed the
mower haltingly, aways fearing that this next step might be my last.
Nothing bad ever happened, and within a few years I was mowing in shorts and sneakers, thinking of the supposed friend my
father had used to illustrate his warning. I imagined this man jumping into his car and pressing on the accelerator with his
bloody stump, a warm foot settled in his lap like a
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