the Knee
As improbable as it seems, a single blade jack knife I carried back in seventy-eight seventy-nine put me on my ass in the mud, unable to get up a few weeks ago. Tempted to call down a curse on that damned little knife, although there may well be those who say I've been the author of my own misfortune.
When I ran the little fish boat two items stayed with me like a shaman's talisman, red baseball cap, old school no damned plastic adjustments in back, and a flat single blade jack knife in the right front pocket of my jeans, sharp enough to shave the hair off the back of your arm arm.
So when my kid Max got to be about five years old it seemed like a time to give him his first jack knife. Part of the knife ritual for me included a new one in mid-April each year, so I took one of the retired knives and ground the blade to butter knife edge. Lectured him on handling knives safely and turned him loose with his new tool.
One afternoon a few days later I looked out the kitchen window to see max thrusting his little knife toward the neighbor boy's throat. Dull or not that can't happen and I scrambled outside to break up the scuffle.
Four steps down to the landing with a low overhead. Taking the steps in two strides my forehead struck the ceiling, upper body cracked back and I crashed on the stairs with my right leg folded under. Before the pain I reached for the knee in time to feel my patella slip back in place, it had been pulled several centimeters toward the outside of my leg. Saw a kid in pe the other day with legs like mine, including a knee brace. His doctors had called the architecture of the leg that presupposes this kind of injury as a birth defect. The doc who aspirated my knee calmly described the condition to the nurse while I looked at the far wall trying not to visualize the huge needle probing my right knee.
Thirty-seven years and several minor dislocations later, I am walking Tito along our usual route the other day, when my foot hits an unexpected patch of slick mud, putting lateral stress on the weak knee. In an instant I am on my back, stunned. Lucky my ass is heavier than my head. If I hadn't just been reviewing my health plan and noticed the $250 co-pay for an ambulance ride, I would have called 911, tried unsuccessfully to call Mary Jane a dozen times. Her phone in the house, she working in the garage. Made it home on my own.
I'm not the only one to fall down and hurt my knee. Not the only young man to see his veil of invincibility ripped apart in the flood of pain. Not the only old man to suddenly understand it's not just a misunderstanding of some kind, he really is almost seventy. Remember when you saw the old guy from the Pyx, thinking geez he's old, must be seventy?
Yes, Paul. Seventy is as old as you thought when you were thirty-five.
When I ran the little fish boat two items stayed with me like a shaman's talisman, red baseball cap, old school no damned plastic adjustments in back, and a flat single blade jack knife in the right front pocket of my jeans, sharp enough to shave the hair off the back of your arm arm.
So when my kid Max got to be about five years old it seemed like a time to give him his first jack knife. Part of the knife ritual for me included a new one in mid-April each year, so I took one of the retired knives and ground the blade to butter knife edge. Lectured him on handling knives safely and turned him loose with his new tool.
One afternoon a few days later I looked out the kitchen window to see max thrusting his little knife toward the neighbor boy's throat. Dull or not that can't happen and I scrambled outside to break up the scuffle.
Four steps down to the landing with a low overhead. Taking the steps in two strides my forehead struck the ceiling, upper body cracked back and I crashed on the stairs with my right leg folded under. Before the pain I reached for the knee in time to feel my patella slip back in place, it had been pulled several centimeters toward the outside of my leg. Saw a kid in pe the other day with legs like mine, including a knee brace. His doctors had called the architecture of the leg that presupposes this kind of injury as a birth defect. The doc who aspirated my knee calmly described the condition to the nurse while I looked at the far wall trying not to visualize the huge needle probing my right knee.
Thirty-seven years and several minor dislocations later, I am walking Tito along our usual route the other day, when my foot hits an unexpected patch of slick mud, putting lateral stress on the weak knee. In an instant I am on my back, stunned. Lucky my ass is heavier than my head. If I hadn't just been reviewing my health plan and noticed the $250 co-pay for an ambulance ride, I would have called 911, tried unsuccessfully to call Mary Jane a dozen times. Her phone in the house, she working in the garage. Made it home on my own.
I'm not the only one to fall down and hurt my knee. Not the only young man to see his veil of invincibility ripped apart in the flood of pain. Not the only old man to suddenly understand it's not just a misunderstanding of some kind, he really is almost seventy. Remember when you saw the old guy from the Pyx, thinking geez he's old, must be seventy?
Yes, Paul. Seventy is as old as you thought when you were thirty-five.
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