Denis Lehane: Bullock left me flying on one wing
My right hand, to be exact. And before scores of teary-eyed women rush to my door offering me all kinds of services, can I assure everyone that I don’t need any help. I’m managing perfectly fine.
My hand is only broken temporarily, normal service will be resumed in a couple of weeks.
So, if you now find yourself in a state of utter bewilderment because of my situation, please pull yourself together. Wipe away the tears, I’ll be grand. Don’t be fretting, you are only embarrassing yourself.
Remember, I’m a farmer and, as a species, we don’t get too bothered by trivial matters like broken bones.
In farming, if your right hand breaks, it only means that the left hand will work all the harder.
You see, when the man above was designing the farmer, he made us the most rugged of all, and just to ensure the smooth running of the farmer, he gave us two of almost everything.
For example, I have two eyes to see, and two ears to hear. So if you damage one, you always have the other one to fall back on. And it’s the same with hands.
I have discovered over the past week that I can farm just as magnificently with my left hand as I ever did with my right.
A bucket of milk will spill just as easily from my left hand as it did from the other.
And in some ways, my farming life has improved considerably, since my right hand snapped in two.
For instance, I no longer have to worry about writing cheques, with my right hand out of action, I can’t sign my name to anything.
Breaking my hand has saved me a fortune.
Because it was my bidding hand that got smashed, I can no longer purchase expensive cattle at the mart, only to sell them at a later date to the factory and suffer a deplorable loss.
Breaking my hand could well be the makings of me.
However, it’s not all positive, as my little girl Denise pointed out, when she heard the breaking news. “But how will you yawn now?” she asked, “Don’t you always do a big stretch with your hands when you yawn?”
Clearly, Denise was asking the right kind of question. Yawning for me has been a terrible struggle since last Wednesday, and is best avoided.
And of course, there is mass on the Sunday. Because of my broken right hand, I can no longer sing in the choir.
You see, I have a desperate habit of singing my hymns the way Bishop Casey used to sing his hymns, with plenty of hand gestures. I could do fierce damage to my metacarpal, if a right lively number is demanded.
Worst of all, my social life has taken a terrible tumble since my poor hand felt the full force of a wild bullock’s kick. With my right hand in a cast, I can no longer hold a pint. I tried holding one in my left hand, but it’s not the same. It’s like drinking someone else’s pint.
And if some poor fellow gets an uncontrollable urge to sing, after a few jars, I can no longer strap on my old guitar and cover them in glory, in their hour of need. My guitar has fallen silent.
