Sebastian and I were deep into improving his house made of good size stacking interlocking blocks (think very large Legos) complete with lighting supplied by many strands of Christmas lights. Already wonderful but all great designs constantly need improvement.
This house resided, as all the awesome grandchild constructions of any size do, on our wrap around seven foot wide covered porch.
Our house is on pilings and the porch is on the main level. By adding the aspect of pilings this means it is actually the second level. You get to the porch via three doors, two are double glass doors on the water side, the third a single glass door opposite. This makes the porch really like another room in the house, a huge room.
We live just feet off of Kitty Hawk Bay on the Outer Banks (for my loyal readers that may not know this). It's a breath taking view. We face north and get a glorious sunset over the water a good portion of the year. Sunrise is blocked by land and homes but it's pretty good too.
Recently Donny replaced the wooden rails between the pilings on the porch with tempered glass. Yes, it is a soul settling place. And so we all, from babies to adults, spend as much time on the porch as we can. Even in cranking weather, the little ones are out there running and riding.
This day is toward the end of Donald and Terri's vacation and Sebastian and I are very busy squeezing a lot into each minute. Rushing out one of the heavy glass doors with hands full of supplies, I fail to stop the door from slamming onto my heel. It is a windy day otherwise the door would have been no problem. I look down. Blood is gushing. I have no time for this. I drop my stuff, grab a paper towel from the kitchen and return to more important things.
About this time Terri comes along and notices the seeping blood. The paper towel is woefully inadequate. "I'll get a bandaid," I tell her. The only bandaid I can find is a Hello Kitty one. It tries to staunch the wound but it, too, is woefully too small.
I don't care. I just want to get back to playing with Sebastian. But the blood is announcing itself everywhere. I find another slightly bigger bandaid. It helps. Some. Terri witnesses all of this with trepidation. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, fine."
"Alright. But just let me say this and I'll say no more."
I look at her looking at my bloody bandaid. It is holding the line. Barely.
"Might you need stitches?"
"Nope."
Recently she sent me this link with a comment that it reminded her of my foot injury. I found it hysterical. It begged for a BitchSLAPBoard (my new company I formed with my cousin). I painted one and tagged Terri on FB (where else). Today I get a package from WOOT. I didn't recall ordering anything. It is my own Just A Flesh Wound shirt. From Terri. I love her. I love this. Tis But A Scratch.
Post Script
I need to add that Terri was more right than I. It has taken said heel many weeks, nay months to heal. It might have gone a bit faster if I had not deigned to try and run buffering the wound with but moleskin pads. (It didn't hurt when I was running. Only later). A few weeks ago, I finally got the message and cut the back out of an old pair of shoes. I actually tried cutting a hole in the shoe to match where the flesh tear was but I miscalculated and after too many revisions ended up cutting the entire back out. I thought this would render the modified shoe impossible to keep on but it worked just fine.
