The Pickled Finger, Anyone?

June 2006

Pickled Finger, Anyone?

I work for a prominent electrical connections company in Jonesboro, Arkansas and my boss, like myself is an avid fisherperson. After spending an hour or so swapping fish stories, I felt like I really should share this one with our fellow enthusiasts……..

One fine late spring day (we’ll call him Kevin, to protect the innocent) Kevin, my boss, loaded his boat with all his new fangled fishing equipment (rod, reel and tackle box) and his ice chest, of course--- for what die-hard fisherman every graced the riverbanks or lake waters without his trusty ice chest? He hooked the boat trailer to the back of his truck, connected the lights, and checked to make sure all turn signals and brake lights were working properly. Tossing his favorite beat up fishing hat onto the truck seat, he climbed in behind the steering wheel.

Rubbing his hands together then gripping the steering wheel, he grinned lasciviously from ear to ear. “Look out little fishees, here I come", he whispered through clinched teeth.

With all the macho he could muster, he slammed the truck into drive and squealed out of the driveway leaving black marks all the way to the street----secretly hoping his wife was watching from the kitchen window.

Wasp Lake was about an hour’s drive (counting one quick stop at the package store) from his house. After making his stop to fill his ice chest with ice and cool beverages to

combat the blazing sun that would beat down on him before noon, he relaxed in his air-conditioned Eddie Bauer Ford and continued on to the lake.

He dropped the boat into the water and pulled the trailer out. Engaging the handbrake he got out of the truck and untied the line mooring the boat to the trailer. He pulled the boat to the bank and tied it securely to a scrubby little bush at the water’s edge, then he climbed back into the truck and parked it away from the boat ramp. He whistled a lively tune as he climbed into his boat and kicked himself off with his foot. This was going to be a better day than a good day at work---no doubt about it. Firing up the motor he zoomed out across the lake and looked for a nice tree-lined cove that promised some nice large-mouth trophies. Cutting the engine he quietly glided into a cove and dropped his trolling motor. He rummaged through his tackle box and came up with a comely little rattletrap minnow and clipped it onto the end of his line.

With the precision of a brain surgeon, he placed the lure in the dappled water beneath an over-hanging willow at the first whip of his thin Sheakspeare rod. The swoosh of air that tickled his ear as the lure flew past made his spine tingle with delight. What a day! Heaven must be a fishing hole.

By late afternoon he had three nice keepers but nothing with mounting possibilities.

But, he was happy. The three bass he had in his live well had put up heroic fights and he would be proud to have them grace his dinner table. Making a few last casts he trolled closer and closer to the boat ramp. He was tired and euphoric all at the same time.

Time for just one more cast and he was back at the ramp. It had been a glorious day and he was completely satisfied with himself.

Tying the boat to the small bush again, he stretched and patted himself on the belly. Smiling to himself he pulled the ice chest out of the boat and removed the one lone can floating in the ice-laden water. He dumped the ice from the chest and tossed the empty chest back into the boat. Then he walked up the hill to the truck and backed the trailer down into the water. Being a man of large stature he had always manhandled his boat onto the trailer without having to drive it on. Tugging on the rope he maneuvered the boat into position between the rails and by standing on the trailer tongue, he managed to pull the boat toward the front of the trailer.

It would have to happen that at just that moment God saw fit to blow a puff of wind in Kevin’s direction and cause the boat to drift off to one side. Ok, no problem. Kevin was a husky fellow and undaunted he grabbed the front end of the boat and with both hands he picked the boat up and centered it on the trailer. Just as he felt confident that it was well placed, his foot slipped and he dropped off the trailer tongue with the boat still in his hands.

As luck would have it, the tip of one finger (his pointer) was still under the boat when it came crashing down on the trailer. “Oh, that’s gonna’ hurt!" The numbing pain in the tip of his finger ran up his arm to his elbow. He was sure to lose a fingernail over that one. There was still enough light that he could see that the tip of his finger was gone when he had at first thought to suck the pain away. Looking around he found it lying on the trailer.

He looked around for something to wrap his finger as it was beginning to bleed heavily but could find nothing suitable. Then he kicked off his shoe---he was wearing white socks. With his good hand he pulled off his sock and wrapped it snuggly around the injured finger, then he finished fastening the boat down to the trailer. For lack of a better receptacle, he had placed his fingertip in his pocket. When he climbed into the truck, he suddenly felt light headed. Hoping he wouldn’t faint before he got there, he decided to try to make it to the nearest hospital.

With his pointing finger stuck straight up above the steering wheel, he managed to get the truck in gear and pull out onto the highway. He knew it was a good twenty minutes to the nearest hospital. He eyed the single can of beer lying on the seat beside him, still sweating from the cold ice and water in the ice chest. Well, he was injured, he deserved to drink and drive this one time. He picked up the can and single-handedly popped the top and swilled half the can in one gulp. He had really worked up a huge thirst!

Suddenly he remembered the fingertip in his pocket. Something came to mind---if he could put it on ice, they could sew it back on. But he didn’t have any ice he had dumped it into the lake. He looked at the can of beer still ice cold and sweating in his hot hand.

Setting the can on the seat beside him, he pulled the fingertip from his pocket and dropped it into the can. He smiled. He was brilliant. Not only would that keep it cold, but it would be pre-sterilized as well.

God must love old fishermen---he made it to the hospital in record time and still had the strength to walk in on his own. Needless to say he was confused when the hospital guard tackled him at the door. “You can’t come into my hospital drinking beer and staggering like a wino!" The guard tried to wrest the can from Kevin’s fingers.

“No, wait! You don’t understand. My finger is in that can!" Kevin watched in horror as the guard prepared to toss the can into a large trash receptacle by the door.

To end this story on a good note, Kevin was allowed to retrieve his fingertip. However, the doctor was unable to reattach such a small piece. Kevin is forced to go through life with one slightly shorter finger. More good news, though, is that it did in no way adversely affect his casting abilities. He does want to encourage all you fellow anglers---save your ice until you get back home. You never know when you might need it!

END

by Sandra E. Graham, author of “AMOS JAKEY" and “NICOLINA"---published by American Book Publishing

Favorite pastime is fishing White River out of Jacksonport in Arkansas with my favorite husband, Donnie.

email grahase@starband.net