I was thirteen when my parents put an addition on our family’s home. Daddy was a fairly accomplished carpenter and he designed and built a family room that fit in the space where our back porch used to be.
I remember asking to help, but Daddy said it wouldn’t be a good idea, considering my age and lack of experience —he didn’t want me to get hurt. He gave me some small odd jobs, like clearing the workspace and sweeping up. Besides, most of the hammers and other tools were already being used by workmen.
(In my defense, I thought of myself as both, qualified and experienced. I had already built two treehouses. Okay, yeah, they weren’t perfect, but they served my purpose. The neighborhood kids and I had a great time in them).
Later, as I was sweeping the area, I noticed an idle sledgehammer. “Hmmm, if I can lift the darn thing, I can probably put a few nails in here and there and help out that way!”
When I came to … I was lying flat on the ground. Daddy was behind me, my head on his lap, Mama beside him, holding my hand in a bag of ice cubes. My thumb and pointer finger hurt like a son-of-a-gun and oddly, I could feel my heart beating in them. “What happened?” I squeaked.
“You tried to hammer a nail with a sledgehammer. You missed the nail, smashed your finger and thumb and fainted. I know you wanted to help, honey, but I tried to tell you it wasn’t a good idea. Besides, that isn’t what a sledgehammer is supposed to be used for.”
“I fainted? I hope no one saw me! I fainted and fell? How embarrassing!”
“It’s okay, honey. You were … very graceful …”
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Ouch! 🤕 🤗