My Favorite Scar
By: Britney Baker
Life is crazy! I had anticipated for years about attending this little thing called the Oklahoma Writing Project. It’s a professional development for writing teachers that occurs every summer. Many summers were busy for me and my family, or I had other professional development programs to attend, or I just wanted a whole summer off. 2026 was my summer! I applied and was accepted to participate. One of our first writing assignments was to write a personal narrative. I instantly thought of a personal narrative that I share with my students to ease their worry of writing, and to give them ideas. As I was searching for past writings to share when I came across an old quickwrite from a summer master’s class. I had honestly forgotten that I wrote this in 2010. It was similar to the narrative that I share with my fifth graders. As I read through the quickwrite, I glance down to my scar and suddenly, I flashback to 50 years ago.
My favorite scar happened when I was around three or four years old during the summer of 1976. I was outside playing in the soft green grass while my older brother, Tracey, was trimming the weeds away from the fence line with a pair of shears. It was the one with long blades. As he was working away, he stopped to wipe the sweat off of his forehead and tell me…almost scolding me… “Do not stick your fingers over here!” I could tell he was hot and tired. His short blonde hair was starting to spike up with all the sweat. He smelled bad. Like onions and dog poo. Trust me, I did not want to get closer to him.
Instead, I was busy pulling blades of grass and scratching at the dirt. There were so many things to explore. The grass was comforting like my favorite blanket, but what was underneath in the soil? I discovered so many things closer to the earth. I found a little roly poly trying to escape, until the tips of my fingers brushed its back and it rolled up into a little ball. Then, suddenly, I spotted movement. I had to brush my dark brown bangs away from my face. What is that? My inquisitive little Capricorn self had to know.
It was so tiny! So cute! So jumpy. I’m surprised I found it since it looked exactly like just another blade of grass. This little creature had long wispy antennae darting from its head, and back legs that bent differently than my legs. It was such a bright, pretty green, and just small enough to fit in my awkward little hands. At first, it scooted closer to the ground, thinking it could hide from me. I started carefully moving the blades of grass searching for it. I was going to catch it.
My determination grew as it jumped to another blade, and then another, and then another. That little thing is fast. I couldn’t understand why it didn’t want to just sit in my hand and let me pet it. The little grasshopper would jump, then I would jump, then it would jump. It was a game now, and I wasn’t going to lose. I honestly don’t remember much about what happened next, except I didn’t catch the grasshopper, and that grasshopper had an evil plan. It jumped and jumped…closer to where my brother had the shears. Maybe it was trying to escape past the fence line because it did. I quickly leaped in towards it to swoop it up when….”AAAHHHHHHHH!”
I’m pretty sure at this point my brain had exploded from the pain from my finger. Wait, where’s my finger? I had reached in with my left hand when my brother snipped the end of my pointer finger. After the shock, I started looking at it in awe. How is it barely hanging on by a little piece of flesh, and wow…I have that much blood in me…is that bone?
“MOM!, my brother screamed as he was running, more like stumbling, toward her. She was pulling weeds from the flower beds when she looked up and saw this sad lanky boy falling all over himself. “MOM, I cut Britney’s finger…I..I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to.” She could barely hear his words over his sobs. He was panicked and scared. I was trying to set the tip of my finger back in place.
Our mother comes rushing over to me and can’t even make words make sense. She tells Tracey to go get a cold wash cloth from the linen closet. It didn’t take long because suddenly he was back, and mom wrapped the cloth around my finger and instructed me to squeeze hard.
Of course all of this would happen on a day that dad was at work and drove our only car. Mom pushed me and my brother into the house and called her sister to tell her the news. My uncle rushed over in his car to sweep us away to the hospital. We were all crying when the doctor came in to examine my hand. He could not understand what had happened, mainly because no one, including me, could speak clearly through the tears.
“Mrs. Smithwick,” the doctor stated calmly, “You need to leave the room. You are keeping her in a panic.” My mom reluctantly walked out of the room with Tracey. I really hope he doesn’t get in trouble. The doctor messed around with my finger a lot and at times it really hurt, but I ended up with several stitches in the shape of an oval. Over time it healed perfectly, leaving an oval scar and a curvy fingernail. I even still have feeling in that finger tip.
My memories move forward to the summer of 2006 when my six year old son was riding his bike at the end of the cul-de-sac beside our house. Something was wrong with his bicycle chain, so he jumped off the bike to inspect. He is also a Capricorn and stubbornly determined to do everything on his own. After fiddling with the chain and tightening it up, his little finger got stuck. His left pointer finger. He pulled and pulled and finally jerked it from the chain, which tore a chunk of his skin off. Having flashbacks, I knew to rush him to the emergency room. Remembering my mom’s reaction from 1976, I wrapped his blood drenched finger with a cold wash cloth and instructed him to squeeze tightly. I whisked him into the car called my mom on the way to the ER, and it didn’t take long for her to be right there…to comfort me and her grandson. He handled the event about as well as my younger self did. His stitches were more of a U shape instead of an oval like mine. My scar is nearly a full circle, while his scar mained in the U shape, just a little smaller than mine. Now, we have matching scars on the same finger, and we like to show them off as if the scars were hereditary.
I wonder if when he gets older and has children if the same scar will will make an appearance on them? It sounds like it may turn into a painful tradition.
Update: My son did have children, a son in 2022 and a daughter in 2024. In May 2026, his daughter used her skills to grab a steak knife off the counter and begin to wave it around proudly. My son and his wife tried to carefully take the knife away when she cut her dad close to his thumb. He took off to grab a paper towel when their 4 year old sacrificed himself to save the day. He grabbed the knife by the blade and sliced his ring finger on his right hand. My son called me on the way to the emergency room and informed me of the events. Of course, I rushed over to meet them. They were already in the waiting room when I stormed in. My sweet little grandson looked up at me with wide eyes and holding a wet towel around his finger. “Mimi!” he exclaimed, “Look!” For some reason he seemed so proud and not even the least bit scared. I’m not sure if I predicted the future or if his sweet little Pisces self just wanted to match with Daddy and Mimi the best he could.
