(March 1, 2018)
Most month off from net
nearly has filled this notebook:
so downtown I goo soon.
- (Hobble, more like it! Late in February I ripped off the right Great Toenail and put a hurtin’ high-ankle sprain on the tennant just above said Great Toe – and why they are so called “Great” is a pretty easy answer for anyone who’s spent time with the Infantry – even the U. S. Army’s infantry, though I suspect them soljurs like my FB and actual pal Butch West, consider it the Marines’ role to “hump” the bush from battle to battle while the modern U. S. Harmby flies in its pristine helocopters – that is, when they are not delivering nerly cold beer and nearly hot chow to the troops temporarily stuck in “the field.” Be that as it may, I spent about two weeks soaking the toe – Great Toe, right side edition, in scalding Epsom Salts (Magnesium Sulfate) to forestall any potential blood poisioning, disinfect the tender un-nailed toe and ease the swollen and even now still tender ankle. I jammed my right snake-booted foot into a mud-hard or rock-mud hard furrow caused by a large lumbering truck tire at our last gopher tortoise (gopherus polyphemus) location/relocation project and I knew naught until I got home and removed said snakeboot and the damp – from sweat? I hope? – sock that side and saw the carnage. The toenail flapped hike a one-hasp door and the ankle was saying things in strong language. Quick, I filled a 16-quart heavy duty stock pot with water and set it a-boil. Hobbled to the medicine locker for tape, iodine, betadine, anntibiotic ointment and then located by memory (first time!) the Epsom Salts. Grabbed a well-deserved bottle of beer and a wrap for said brew, a book, the remote and began my rehabilitation. I shall not bore (further!) with details of the regimen but suffice to say the flapping nail finally convinced me to pull it the rest of the way off the toe with long stainless steel forceps, grimacing all the while: hey, I never said I wasn’t a baby, which is allowed all us killers from eon to eon. That was about day three or four, and my foot was soggy and marshgrass tried to move in. It took another week before I got both feet’s nails trimmed enough to take to saddle and bridle, but the Smith never swept up the fillings from those two hooves. Each night I’d douse the toe with hydrogen peroxide, betadine and then to be sure iodine – ouch – and when dry apply anti biotic ointment, a quaze pad pulled out to cover the first three toes – which I call The Choir since each has been well-broken and, well, broken. And I surrounded the trio with tape, put on a clean sock and reclined to consider bringing some more beers by the couch to keep the second one company. Now, as to why it’s a Great Toe: when broken – or worse – amputated, an infantryman is unable to march and even more detrimental to military bearing is unable to execute about face, the other faces, and more besides: column, flank and obliques and thus cannot keep a general happy. Keeping generals happy long has been an unrequited goal of mine – at least it says so in my memoirs. Now, as this is being written well after the affray and less lengthy a time since I decided I could bear the pain to walk a mile or slightly more to face this one-eyed monster and construct my woeful tale, let me tell you what I have learned. Again. Pain, God says, Is my way of proving to you you still are alive. Pain is good for that. So quitcherbitchin’!)