Let's talk about the Ideas Trait.
The Accident at the Well - by Denise Lazear
Let me take you to Iowa. Let me take you to the farm. Let me take you to the accident.
“I’m headed out to water the horses!” Denise hollered to the entire house as the door to the garage shut behind her. Stepping outside she discovered that the rain had pounded the ground last night filling the puddles and making everything damp. The summer sun, however, touched her skin, and the humid air took hold causing her long brown hair to cling to the back of her neck as she walked toward the water trough. Nearing the far end of the fenced-in lot, Rocky, black belly hair wet from dragging on the grass, followed behind her with his tail wagging. Rocky had been a faithful companion for the past seven years – ever since she was nine.
Once at the well, Denise turned on the switch that controlled the water pump. The little engine groaned to life but the belt didn’t move. The pulley spun, but along with everything else, rain drops covered the belt preventing the pulley from gripping it and moving it around and around. If the belt didn’t go around, there was no getting the water from the well and that would mean carrying buckets of water to the trough.
I’ll help it along, Denise decided as she reached out and pushed the belt. Immediately the pulleys gained their momentum and grabbed the moving piece of rubber . . . and her index finger. Shock and a torturing pain erupted. Denise panicked and yanked back the finger the machine had swallowed. Water poured from the faucet of the well as blood spurted from her hand. Flesh was missing, and bone stuck out. Clenching the open wound with her opposite hand, Denise ran in horror towards the house.
Something stopped her – the well water – it was pouring from the faucet. It needed turned off or it would eventually overflow. She'd be in so much trouble if the water filled up and spilled out of the trough. Where had this thinking come from? Surely Dad would understand it was an emergency. Hustling back, she turned off the clanking pump that had torn up her finger. It quieted on command, and she raced to the house. Hurrying through the door and straight to the bathroom, Denise rambled to Mom – speaking too quickly about what had occurred. Never letting go of the wound – keeping the pressure there – Denise flushed blood down the drain, the cool water giving some relief.
Mom still didn’t understand what had transpired other than the horses were involved somehow. Acting quickly, she knew what had to be done. Getting an ice pack from the freezer and a towel, she guided Denise to the car. The wound pounded and pounded as Mom helped her into the front seat. Going around to the driver’s side, she stepped in, put the car in drive, and out the long lane they headed for the hospital.
At the top of the lane, the tires slid on the gravel as Mom stopped the car and blurted, “Did you say you pulled your finger off?”
Unable to speak at this point, Denise shook her head up and down. Mom turned the car around and headed back down the drive. Denise sat in the car silently waiting while Mom hustled out to the scene of the accident. She disappeared around the corner but wasn’t gone long before coming back holding the tip of flesh stolen by the pulley. Even though Mom looked about thirty, her forty years and the experience with five children gave her a calm only experience could. She placed the surprisingly undamaged remains, from first knuckle to fingernail, on the ice pack covering it with the towel. It was the piece of the puzzle that needed attached again.
Twenty-five miles later, at the hospital, Denise and her mom were rushed into a room where Dr. McClung injected a pain relieving medicine into her finger – deadening the messages being sent to the brain. For the first time, tears of fear and relief spilled from her eyes. Everything was going to be all right. The doctor praised Mom for her quick thinking – placing the finger and parts on the ice pack made it possible for him to maybe save it. Dr. McClung proceeded to work on the disconnected piece of flesh, removing the fatty tissues that wouldn’t survive the reattachment process while a nurse draped sterile towels around Denise’s hand preparing for surgery.
While still coherent, Denise tranquilly watched Dr. McClung move the needle in and out of the now battered flesh joining it back to where it belonged. Once finished and wrapped in pristine white gauze, her injury looked like a mummy finger puppet. Dr. McClung gave Denise directions on how to take care of the fragile wound for the next few months. If everything healed properly, the now black flesh would turn pink again.
While out watering the horses months later, Denise bravely turned the electricity on to the pump, a little afraid it might attack her. As the engine started, the belt turned with the pulleys, and the faucet spit out the sparkling well water. Looking down at her slightly scarred, yet whole, finger, it throbbed in remembrance of that wet summer morning when quick thinking by her mom and the help of a great doctor gave her back full use and feeling.
“I’m headed out to water the horses!” Denise hollered to the entire house as the door to the garage shut behind her. Stepping outside she discovered that the rain had pounded the ground last night filling the puddles and making everything damp. The summer sun, however, touched her skin, and the humid air took hold causing her long brown hair to cling to the back of her neck as she walked toward the water trough. Nearing the far end of the fenced-in lot, Rocky, black belly hair wet from dragging on the grass, followed behind her with his tail wagging. Rocky had been a faithful companion for the past seven years – ever since she was nine.
Once at the well, Denise turned on the switch that controlled the water pump. The little engine groaned to life but the belt didn’t move. The pulley spun, but along with everything else, rain drops covered the belt preventing the pulley from gripping it and moving it around and around. If the belt didn’t go around, there was no getting the water from the well and that would mean carrying buckets of water to the trough.
I’ll help it along, Denise decided as she reached out and pushed the belt. Immediately the pulleys gained their momentum and grabbed the moving piece of rubber . . . and her index finger. Shock and a torturing pain erupted. Denise panicked and yanked back the finger the machine had swallowed. Water poured from the faucet of the well as blood spurted from her hand. Flesh was missing, and bone stuck out. Clenching the open wound with her opposite hand, Denise ran in horror towards the house.
Something stopped her – the well water – it was pouring from the faucet. It needed turned off or it would eventually overflow. She'd be in so much trouble if the water filled up and spilled out of the trough. Where had this thinking come from? Surely Dad would understand it was an emergency. Hustling back, she turned off the clanking pump that had torn up her finger. It quieted on command, and she raced to the house. Hurrying through the door and straight to the bathroom, Denise rambled to Mom – speaking too quickly about what had occurred. Never letting go of the wound – keeping the pressure there – Denise flushed blood down the drain, the cool water giving some relief.
Mom still didn’t understand what had transpired other than the horses were involved somehow. Acting quickly, she knew what had to be done. Getting an ice pack from the freezer and a towel, she guided Denise to the car. The wound pounded and pounded as Mom helped her into the front seat. Going around to the driver’s side, she stepped in, put the car in drive, and out the long lane they headed for the hospital.
At the top of the lane, the tires slid on the gravel as Mom stopped the car and blurted, “Did you say you pulled your finger off?”
Unable to speak at this point, Denise shook her head up and down. Mom turned the car around and headed back down the drive. Denise sat in the car silently waiting while Mom hustled out to the scene of the accident. She disappeared around the corner but wasn’t gone long before coming back holding the tip of flesh stolen by the pulley. Even though Mom looked about thirty, her forty years and the experience with five children gave her a calm only experience could. She placed the surprisingly undamaged remains, from first knuckle to fingernail, on the ice pack covering it with the towel. It was the piece of the puzzle that needed attached again.
Twenty-five miles later, at the hospital, Denise and her mom were rushed into a room where Dr. McClung injected a pain relieving medicine into her finger – deadening the messages being sent to the brain. For the first time, tears of fear and relief spilled from her eyes. Everything was going to be all right. The doctor praised Mom for her quick thinking – placing the finger and parts on the ice pack made it possible for him to maybe save it. Dr. McClung proceeded to work on the disconnected piece of flesh, removing the fatty tissues that wouldn’t survive the reattachment process while a nurse draped sterile towels around Denise’s hand preparing for surgery.
While still coherent, Denise tranquilly watched Dr. McClung move the needle in and out of the now battered flesh joining it back to where it belonged. Once finished and wrapped in pristine white gauze, her injury looked like a mummy finger puppet. Dr. McClung gave Denise directions on how to take care of the fragile wound for the next few months. If everything healed properly, the now black flesh would turn pink again.
While out watering the horses months later, Denise bravely turned the electricity on to the pump, a little afraid it might attack her. As the engine started, the belt turned with the pulleys, and the faucet spit out the sparkling well water. Looking down at her slightly scarred, yet whole, finger, it throbbed in remembrance of that wet summer morning when quick thinking by her mom and the help of a great doctor gave her back full use and feeling.