Bad Hands

That's what we used to say about someone who couldn't catch a ball, or fumbled with everything he tried to pick up.  

"He's got the bad hands,"  or "He's got stone hands,"  or sarcastically, when a member of the opposing team dropped a pop-up or fumbled the basketball out of bounds,  "Good hands there, Sport!"

I always thought I had pretty good hands.  I could shoot a basketball fairly well, and could catch a pop foul with the old catcher's mitts we used to have.   No more, though.  I've "got the bad hands" myself now.  I don't mean I can't catch a pop-up.  Last one I caught was at old Atlanta Stadium about 15 years ago.  Rafael Belliard popped it up, and we were in the third or fourth row behind the tarp down the first base line.  I had a glove, it came straight for me, and I stood up and made a two hand catch.  I wasn't about to let it pop out of the glove.   I had that drilled into me early by my Daddy, my Uncle Bill, Sandy, and Coach Carter.

What I mean by bad hands is that they hurt.  Sometimes they ache like a toothache.   I suspect some of those ball games I played, both baseball and bounce ball, have something to do with it.   No telling how many times I jammed my thumbs and fingers.   They call the catcher's equipment "the tools of ignorance,"  and now I know why.  

I had carpal tunnel surgery in each hand a few years back.  I waited too late, and have regained only part of the feeling in my fingers.  The surgery did get rid of the pain I had at night, waking with my hands cramping, asleep, and aching at the same time, if you can imagine it.   Now, some of my fingers are aching in the joints and locking up in a condition my orthopedic surgeon calls "trigger finger."  He has given me cortisone shots twice, and they are only temporary relief.  Besides, the shots themselves hurt like rip.    He says he can go in and snip the sheath that the tendons travel through and relieve the restriction, thus doing away with the inflammation and pain.   I watched the operation on youtube.  It looked like about a five minute procedure per finger.  I need it on two fingers, my actual trigger finger and third finger on my right hand.  It looks like a simple operation.  Katie said she believes she could do it.  I'm scheduled for the surgery next Friday.  It is done in the office.

About 10 days ago my left wrist and thumb started aching and popping when I moved my thumb.   Turns out this is something called De Quervains Tendinitis, or Tendinosis.  Again, it has something to do with a restricted and inflamed tendon.  The Doc and the PA told me last week that a cortisone shot should clear it up.  I had the shot, but it is worse now, if anything.  It is painful to grasp anything with the thumb.  Holding a steering wheel makes it hurt.  Something as simple as pulling up your pants, or grasping something between your thumb and index finger is painful.  

Hopefully, I can get these things fixed in the near future.  I have to remind myself that there are a lot of people with much worse maladies, and that I really should be ashamed for complaining.  I am old, after all, and should expect a few aches and pains.

I just hope I don't need to hit somebody with a balled up fist, or catch any foul balls any time soon.  I'm not sure I could "hand"le it.

Turkeys, Peaches, and Sharp Knives

In the late 50s and early 60s, along with my boiled peanut business, Daddy had me and Sandy running peach stands on US 19.  The two main locations I worked at were where Bethel Church Road turns off 19 South of Butler just before you get to the Red Level, and the top of Whitewater Hill, also South of Butler.

US 19 was still a main route to Florida for the Yankees because I-75 was still pretty much in the planning and construction stages.  I used to marvel about the way these folks talked and dressed.  At that time and place, it was still pretty unusual to see a grown man wearing Bermuda shorts and flip-flops.  I can only imagine what the Yankees thought about a chubby little boy, barefoot as a yard dog, with a single-shot shotgun in the corner,  telling them in what must have seemed like an affected drawl, "These cups are fifty-cents, these a dollar, two dollars a peck, three-fifty for half-a-bushel, and five dollars a bushel."

There was actually a building at the Bethel Church Road location.  It had sides and a front that folded out when in use, and merchandise could be left in it and locked up overnight.   The Whitewater Hill location was a more modest affair, usually with a board supported by a couple of tall hampers turned upside down, with the merchandise displayed on the board.   There were shade trees right at the edge of the road, so it was pleasant, even in hot weather.   Mama would take me to the Whitewater Hill stand right after breakfast, and would either provide a packed lunch, or sometimes bring me something at dinner time.   Two events at this place stand out in my mind after all these years.

The peach stand was directly across the road from my Great Aunt Maude and Uncle Tom Greene's home, and important to this story, poultry houses.  (Teri, Renee, and Susan know exactly who and where I'm talking about.)  Uncle Tom had, I discovered, turkeys in two of the houses.   Along about this time, it was great sport for young boys to signal truck drivers to blow the air horns on the trucks.  One signaled by putting his right hand at about ear level and making an up and down motion, like pulling a cord.  It was a great reward when a driver responded with a loud blast or two on his horn.  Of course I passed the time between paying customers by having the drivers honk at me.  I was successful at least a half dozen times a day.

After about the third day, I saw Uncle Tom coming across the road.  He was very nice, but it seems that the horns terrified his turkeys.  "Every time one of them trucks blows his horn, all the turkeys fly to one end of the house,"  he told me.  "They are some dumb animals."

It seems that he had lost several birds to injuries incurred when they made a panic flight.  Of course I agreed to stop doing it.  I was very chagrined that I had caused a problem.  I was very fond of Uncle Tom, and especially Aunt Maude, and I wouldn't have purposely done anything to trouble them.  There was a problem, though.

At least two or three of the drivers were on short runs, probably between Albany and Atlanta, or maybe Tallahassee and Atlanta, and made the runs two or three times a week.  They anticipated me signaling them to honk, and honked whether or not I signaled.  I would either try to hide when I heard a truck coming, or signal furiously for them to stop by waving my arms and shaking my head.  I think I finally got them stopped, because I don't remember anymore visits from Uncle Tom.

The other incident happened late one afternoon when Mama came to pick me up.  She had brought me some butterbeans in a pint jar, a wedge of cornbread, a piece of fried chicken, and a tomato for my lunch.  She had brought a very sharp knife for me to peel the tomato.  When she picked me up that afternoon, I placed the jar and the bag she had brought it in on the car seat, and put the knife down on the seat.  Dan was standing in the seat next to Mama.  This was long before seat-belts or child seats.  Dan was probably five or so, and usually stood up in the seat.  Apparently, he picked up the knife and held it up right behind me somehow, because when I leaned back, the knife stuck in my back.  I felt it, but it really didn't hurt that much.  I hollered and leaned forward.  I saw a look of horror on Mama's face.  The knife was at least two inches deep in my back, and was sticking out, just like in the movies.  She reached over and pulled it out.   For a few minutes there was a good bit of noise.  I don't exactly remember who got yelled at the most, Dan for stabbing me, or me for getting stabbed.  We didn't go to the Doctor.  I don't remember it ever hurting that much.  I still don't like for Dan to get too near me with sharp objects.