Howdy,
I have two big toes.
Good for you, Hawes. That appears an obvious statement to which most people who’ve avoided severe frostbite in their lifetime can say, so what, so do I.
But this isn’t like an opposable thumbs thing: I’m sporting balloon toes.
I’m talking like sore-thumb big toes.
Those two do however happen to also be my big toes. I have two big balloon big toes.
And it hurts and I want to cry a little. Blog tears.
A few days back I spent a day and a half on the Sacramento river fishing for salmon. (No doubt what I should be describing rather than whining about my big big toes, since we caught fish, the setting held overwhelming beauty, and it proved a wonderful expedition with the guys; but who wants to hear about salmon fighting on line, our boat floating in tapestry sunsets expanding in wide-open sky reflected in the evening river, and a bunch of men eating an absolutely delicious wild game feed, shooting pool, and talking 2016 politics over a presidential debate? Back to my whine … )
I had a problem the morning after returning home from catching salmon (yes, catching, not just fishing — even if I wasn’t one of the ones in the boat who caught one: shout out to Kevin Heppner and my dad, Bill Hawes! Also, thank you, Uncle Donnie for the trip. The smoked fish tastes so good.) My problem was I had a big big toe.
Uncle Donnie sneaking credit for Kevin & Bill’s fish while we were still out in the boat. (Kevin’s is the bigger salmon, but that’s okay, Dad, both taste great!)
My right foot big toe swelled with pain, bubbled and red with what had to be infection. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but because I wore my wetsuit booties my feet were wet with river water even while fishing in the boat. I’m guessing that’s how I picked up the reaction in my right toe, which blew up tight like a helium Zeppelin floating for sale fresh over a store’s cut flowers.
Thus I was soaking my foot in Epsom salt while my ball team, the San Francisco Giants blew a 3-run ninth inning lead to eliminate themselves from even-year World Series contention. New kind of pain. I say, toss that SF bullpen into the salty McCovey Cove bay.
The next night? I’d remembered that we’d just won three World Series titles, but my toe still hurt, so I took it down to the pool and hot tub for another soak, seeking relief. A bit dark in poor lighting, I walked to the edge of the pool and lowering for the first step felt like I stepped on a shard of glass or a sharp pin. I recoiled my left foot in pain, thinking I’d sliced myself or had a something impaling my big toe.
My other big toe.
Shining my phone flashlight at my foot and then where I’d stood to try to figure out what in the dark had happened — I literally looked for a knife or broken glass bottle or something crazy on that first step of the pool because of the stinging pain — but all I found was a honeybee. That little stinker’d stung me. Right under my left big toe, blowing up the ball of my foot and the toe to match the other big toe, swollen and irritated.
Limping back home from the pool on my heels, I thought, “My life is good.”
And it is.
Thankfully, as I write this a few days after the swelling, my big balloon toes lost some helium, but you know what they say (the bullpen needs to be better!) about a sore thumb bumping into anything and everything it could ever come in contact with, so I’m walking around like my old man, cautious and creaky-kneed. Well, I’m being cautious, and he’s creaky-kneed, limping from age and living with caution pizza-twirled in the wind.
Epsom salt kept at the ready.
Don’t worry about my big toes: I’m fine and snacking on smoked salmon, because, “My life is good.”
Thank you, Lord, for the sunsets and the salts.
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
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