Rain and Youth
Again, the fury of the storm raged in the sky around me last night, but little came of it. Once, late, there was a lightning flash that seemed close by, but the rumble of thunder gave it away, coming late and slow. This morning I awoke to wet ground and a rain gauge that captured one tenth of an inch of rain. Not much in my book, but the grass seems to enjoy it. So, I won’t denigrate the gift.
I mowed a little bit yesterday. Went real slow, tried not to put too much stress on the stitched up right hand. It helps that I was sitting down and it’s a zero turn mower which takes a minimum of effort to make it go forth and cut. It’s all in the arms. I might do a little more today. I want to be careful, I’m nearly at the end of the healing journey and I’m looking for a good result. Although it’s not the first scar or scars on the back of my hands.
My left hand, the glove hand, has three scars from the night a runner slid into my tag at third base. It was in the days of metal baseball spikes. It was a slow pitch softball game from the days when we played like we were young men with everything to lose, but then we’d go back to our day jobs as attorneys, writers, or tax men. We cared. But those days passed and eventually I stopped worrying about my speed from second to third and baseball became a game I coached and watched as my memories swirled around and the scars healed.