When my Father was a kid he blew the tip of his thumb off with a shotgun.
He was in the woods that bordered his parent’s tomato farm and shot it off taking aim at some Chase and Sanborn coffee cans.
“Idiot.” My Mother would say.
Still, he evolved into one of those classic, hard-as-nails tough guys with a big heart. You know the ones- they drank out of a garden hose on a hot summer’s day back in the 70’s, or could casually change a flat tire in the most miserable downpour imaginable or maybe even fish a bullet out of their inner thigh with a pair of needle-nosed pliers if they had too. Christ, once in a nursing home I witnessed my Father swish his Mother’s shit out of a bedpan with his bare hands. Holy fucking scarred-for-life. I was 17 years old.