garyfultz

We were young once. Almost half a century later some of our stories might sound a bit far-fetched. By the time this picture was taken we drove the tractor and the pick-up truck on the farm. We milked the cows by hand, made home-made slingshots, dwindled the farm-yard chicken numbers, some of moms canning jars and some windows. The red-tailed hawks in the area took the blame on the chicken numbers but somehow, our parents always seem suspicious.

We lived in Northern Minnesota where fields, forests and water could be exploited daily. Our creative energy and resourcefulness were only bound by our lack of time spent thinking things through. We discovered that climbing a very tall and very skinny tree to the top made it gracefully bend down to the ground and spring back when we let go. The bigger trees only let you down halfway and, but the wrong species broke. Dad called it education incentives…whatever that meant.

One of our brilliant breakthroughs came with the discovery of logic. If one kid could bend over a small 15′ tree by swinging the top over just think how big and high a tree three little people could bend to the ground. Cousin Vern, who was much bigger than us, was persuaded to climb to the top of the “perfect” monster tree first while two of us followed. Giddy with excitement we counted to three and threw our bodies sideways towards the setting sun. The familiar “Crack” of breaking wood had all three of us flashing Vern’s life before our eyes as two of us lit on Vern unharmed. We figured Vern was dead as he was not breathing. I guess it took a while for his lungs to figure out how to get some air. We asked him if he saw Jesus and judging by his look it wasn’t Jesus.

Vern taught us how to play “chicken” with our bicycles. Everybody and everything lost. We healed but the bikes were never the same. I guess Vern expected to win at that one. I remember Vern conceding when I said “two out of three?”

My brothers seemed to escape pain more than me for some reason. One brother was talked off the peak of the barn roof to try the Mary Poppins umbrella thing from a lower starting point. I might have jumped before reason began. We learned to pole vault with a long and stout stick in the barn’s haymow area unto the second story ledge; well, my next two younger brothers learned anyway. Both went on to set records in that event in high school. I quit trying after I missed the soft-landing area. We could grab a stout stick and pole vault our cattle fences but found out the cousins from the city couldn’t. They tangled in the barbed wire electric fence. The cartoons are correct in the facial expressions and hair standing on end renditions of this predicament.

Life was good for me growing up on a farm until my worst of all encountered accidents. Most accidents have a certain recovery time and it’s back to the adventures again, but this one changed who I would become and what I would do forward. After milking the cows, we would carry the pails into the house basement where we would put the milk through an old hand crank cream separator. The milk was poured into a large bowl on top, upon turning the crank at a certain rate, the crème and milk were separated. We found that a circular saw blade fit perfectly on the top spindle under the bowl. One brother would crank and the other could saw. We graduated from paper to small wood pieces then 2″ thick wood.  At 11 years old I could really turn that blade.

I was cranking when the saw blade came off and cut across both my arms near the elbows. My median nerves were cut, I saw my bones instantly and then a river of spurting blood. I don’t remember but bits and pieces after that but I ended up in extensive surgery after a dash to emergency and a 100 mile ambulance ride. A neurosurgeon happened to be on duty that night so he tied my nerve ends together. Veins and arteries were also sewn and tied as well as the arms. I had very little feeling below the elbows for several years, except for pain and mostly numbness.

Scars just are.  They verify the craziest of stories behind them. We are fragile and resilient at the same time. I have a unique sensitivity toward the stories behind scars. I identify with Jesus Christ telling a doubting Thomas to reach out and touch his scars and believe that the story of his resurrection was true. I also identify with Thomas the skeptic until he saw the scars for himself.

Now almost a half century later I recognize kids who could be tree benders. Kids who might push out an old forsaken boat onto a lake with a couple of oars. One would fish while the other bailed water to keep from sinking. Kids who will someday become psychologists, managers, teachers, youth directors, personal trainers, nurses, and great upper management (my siblings). Kids who would become followers of Jesus because they believed the scars like Thomas even though it’s been a couple thousand years.