Persons attempting to find a "text" in this [story] will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a "subtext" in it will be banished; persons attempting to explain, interpret, explicate, analyze, deconstruct, or otherwise "understand" it will be exiled to a desert island in the company only of other explainers.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR - Wendell Berry's introduction to Jayber Crow.
This article was posted to Jayber on 23 October 2005 by to the following categories: Feature, Stories.
An audio version of this article is also available.
Dear Scarred Feet,
You might not remember me. We've met only once before--in the summer of 1987--for a brief but painful encounter which left you permanently marred and me unscathed but dirtied with your blood.
I'm the spokes of your Dad's Schwinn Cruiser, and I'm writing to say: "I'm sorry."
I remember the balmy summer evening when we were on that bike ride together in Kerkhoven and you were dangling beside me.
Part way through the bike ride, your Dad stopped by at a friends house and propped the bike with the kickstand while he went inside. While your Dad was chatting, you were playing with me and teasing me by poking your toes through my fingers.
When your Dad came out, got on the bike, and started riding home, that's when it happened. You swung yourself through the fingers of my spokes once again, just as before. There was nothing that could be done to save you, it happened all too quickly. The spokes were moving too fast. I could almost see it in slow-motion, but I could not, for the life of me, do anything to counteract the inevitable.
You ended up getting tangled between me and the fork, and were cut, battered, and bruised as you flopped to the mercy of my unstoppable rotational rhythm. Your Dad and Mom panicked and did the only thing they could think of--rush you home and try to stop the bleeding.
You spent weeks laying on the couch, elevated, bandaged, and healing without the help of stitches or sutures while I spent lonely nights in the garage.
It was soon after that you moved to Willmar ("the big city"). I never got to say the things I wanted to, and it's been weighing heavy on me ever since: for 18 years, believe it or not.
"I'm sorry", Scarred Feet, for all the things I didn't do; for the foresight I didn't have. You deserve the best. Please accept my apologies.
Sincerely,
The spokes of your Dad's Schwinn Cruiser
Mark, You may have missed your calling. You were born to write. Keep the stories coming.
Ouch, that story makes my feet hurt. Why no stitches?
No stitches because, A) the hospital was 17 mi away and my feet were surprisingly not broken; and B) Mom and Dad were able to stop the bleeding relatively quickly.
Dad told me later that they probably should have taken me to the hospital. My feet healed over time, but I’ve had bad scars primarily on my ankles and the tops of my feet ever since.
Personally, I think the scars are kind of cute.
Mandy, you’d think anything on Mark is cute. This story has renewed my memory of that horrific day. I’m sorry all over again Mark. I’m just glad you don’t have a scarred personality over it.
You’re right; I have a scarred personality for completely separate reasons. :-)