Stay Off The Scrap Wood

The baseball bat was propped between the open-studs of the wall in the third bay of our three-car garage. Filling the third bay was a huge pile of used lumber from the building of our house and garage. I always wondered why we kept all of it, but I was still several years from needing to fill the space with my first car, so I had no valid reason to complain.

That fateful morning, I needed that bat more than anything else the world had to offer. My father, working just outside the garage, noticed my trajectory and issued a single, clear warning: "Stay off that lumber because it has nails all in it." The instruction seemed unnecessary at the time, as my target wasn't even on the lumber pile itself.

After successfully retrieving my baseball, pine cone, and whatever else could be tossed up with my left hand smasher, I faced a choice: take the sensible route around the lumber pile to return to the middle bay, or test what I imagined were my God-given long-jumping abilities. With the overconfidence that only youth can bring, I chose the latter, completely dismissing my father's warning and its underlying wisdom.

My moment of hubris quickly transformed into panic as I realized mid-jump that I had severely overestimated my athletic prowess. The panic intensified as my eyes locked onto my inevitable landing spot: a board featuring two menacing framing nails, poised like predators awaiting their prey. In the next excruciating second, those twin terrors drove through my shoe, through my sock, and through my foot, stopping just shy of breaking through the upper surface.

When I lifted my right foot, the board rose with it, now firmly attached to my flesh. Acting on pure adrenaline and fear, I quickly stepped on the board with my left foot and yanked upward with my right. The sensation of those nails sliding back through my foot turned my stomach, but their exit brought a brief moment of relief.

However, that feeling of freedom proved short-lived. With each subsequent step over the next minute, the pain grew more intense. Within an hour, even the thought of putting weight on my right foot made me wince. As fate would have it, this was one of those rare occasions when our family planned to eat out, at Bryant's Seafood in Hanceville.

I'll never forget that seemingly endless walk from our Chevrolet C20 van across the gravel parking lot to the restaurant. Each step was a reminder of my foolish decision, and I made myself a promise: "If my foot will ever quit hurting, I will never take for granted how much I love walking and not having an electric shock run up my body every time I take a step."