Farmer Nine Fingers

Yesterday we were working on putting up fencing around the potager garden.  This involves some fairly ridiculous steps because I want it to look pretty,  One of those steps is using a hatchet to notch out cross beams made of pine trees.

While notching out one such tree, the hatchet hit a knot, slipped, and sunk itself into Ken’s left index finger.  The same left index finger he lost the tip off of in a woodworking accident.

Like every other stubborn old man out there, he refused to go to the ER, insisting that liquid sutures and butterfly strips would do the trick.

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However, just as he was going to bed, he made the grudging admission, “Yeah.  I probably could have done with a stitch or two.”

Or three or four.

Anyway, he’s 90% certain his last tetanus shot is still covering him, and he’s back at work today.  I’ve already warned him that if gangrene sets in and we have to amputate, I have no qualms about calling him Farmer Nine Fingers for the rest of this life.

But from here on out, I’ll be doing the hatchet work.