Sextuple Stitch

We were unexpectedly woken up early Saturday morning, and since we couldn't go back to sleep, I made Anthony come down to Indian Camp with me to teach me how to use the bow drill and make fire.  We didn't get far.

The knife blade slipped while I was slicing off tinder and the top of it scraped against my left hand.  I looked down thinking I might've scraped it pretty good, but it wasn't too bad.  Then I glanced at my right hand and noticed that the blade was sunk into my index finger.  Anthony said he could see fatty tissue and that I'd probably need stitches.  Curse words in the head.  No fire.

Fortunately for me it never hurt at all.  Except when the doctor gave me the shots and when he sewed the sixth stitch.  That pinched a bit.  Unfortunately for me, my finger's wrapped up like a mummy every day while I split wood and dig holes so that it stays somewhat protected.  Unfortunately for everyone else, I'm just a big inconvenience all around...

And that's the start (and end!?) of my life's injuries.  A couple dozen stitches and a handful of broken bones and non-functioning wrists short of my brother's list, and just a fraction of Anthony's own illustrious bodily sewing career.  Maybe he's rubbing off on me.

In other news, the temperature's dropping and I burned my arm on the wood splitter today.  (A reminiscer (?) of a younger brother's happy kneeling on the lawn mower a couple years back.  Bah haha.)