When Hemingway was 29 years old, his young life in Paris ended. On a warmer than usual March night, after too much wine and absinthe, Hemmie made his way into the shared bathroom down the hall from his bedroom on the rue Mouffetard, and, not bothering to turn on the light, after relieving himself, confused the flush chord for the chord of a skylight which quickly came crashing down on his head.
His record of past injuries and maladies at the hospital that night would have read as such: multiple cuts to the right eye, gorged tonsils, internal hemorrhaging, third degree burns from a water heater, kidney trouble, hand injury from punching through a glass case, broken arm in a car crash, groan muscles torn during a bull run, laceration from a charging horse, torn ligament in his right foot, anthrax, malaria, hemorrhoids, broken toe from kicking a door, jaundice, and a self-inflicted gunshot wound that happened while fishing.
These are just a few of the scraps and bruises Hemingway picked up before his thirtieth birthday. And this trend continued, until, well, the story ended.
What’s your list? What do your scars say about the way you lived, how fiercely you’ve done so?
I’ve always liked camping. I’ve gone my entire life, and each time, I’ve needed a cooler full of food, pots and pans, a five gallon jug of water, changes of clothes, sandals and boots, A GIANT TENT, sleeping bags, mosquito repellent, you get the idea. When I go camping, I go prepared. But right now, and this is new in my life, I think I’m ready to be much, much more uncomfortable. Next camping trip, nothing but a bottle of absinthe and an endless sky of stars.
The scar under my chin represents my desire at 8 years of age to impress my older cousins by accepting their challenge – ride down a crazy steep hill on a kick-along scooter without first asking where the brakes where.
My parents were in Fiji at the time and my Mum never asked my aunt to look after us again.
Reflections on roughing-it camping from a survivalist camper: the endless sky of stars is essential. Can’t do without it. Next, a sleeping bag is not a luxury, it is a matter of nighttime survival. Lose body heat, lose life. Third, a good knife, from which all food gathering and catching evolves from. Next a some kind of pot for boiling water, an essential, even if it is old cleaned-out can. Finally, matches in a water proof container. Despite the romanticism of rubbing two sticks together, you will die of malnutrition before you ever get a fire going.
Lastly, it seems in my humble opinion, that the bottle of absinthe is not a criteria for survival, but a substitution for all the comfort items just distainfully tossed away. Although, in the comfort department, given a choice between all the civilized acoutrements of camping and a bottle of absinthe, you probably made the right choice.
Thoughts on self-inflected scars: As with Hemmie, proving one’s manhood inevitably involves permanent scars. Women generally have the good sense not to try to prove their manhood.
1. 14 years old – known for speed, relay race, 3rd leg, – halfway through my leg of the race, tendon pops. Rather than stop, I took one for the team, determined to finish my leg, and with each stride, further ripping my tendon from the bone – leading to a lifetime of permanent and increasing knee problems.
2. Baseball. Prior to the above mentioned ripping the tendon to shreads incident, I was not a good hitter in baseball, seldom getting the ball out of the infield. But with speed, could often beat to first base a slow bobbling ball to the second baseman; short shop was a guaranteed single. My reputation in baseball was speed. However at 15 years old – no longer Mr. Speedy and not very good at anything else in baseball, I made up for generally mediocre play with death defying catches into walls and flying leaps. I actually caught the ball about 20% of the time, but the other 80% I got an “A” for effort. Out of that, I received a permanent dislocated shoulder and a broken finger of which I never even bothered to see a doctor. The warped knuckle is still there.
3. Anger management. Growing up in the 1950’s, one never learned expressing feeling. All feelings should be supressed, most of all anger. It doesn’t work. The only anger management technique I learned was punching something hard, like a brick wall. Not smart. The amount of permanent arthritic damage to the wrists makes push-ups impossible, and ongoing pain in the wrists. Expressing feelings honestly is a lot better than punching brick walls. Duh. It takes some people a half century to figure that out.