A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass ... 

(That's Tennyson, btw)

A few weeks ago I wondered if I would ever again see green grass. This winter has been such a terrible beast that all which was herbaceous died and withered in a way that seemed so final. Everything was sucked dry of its lifeblood, remaining stark, naked and limp from being frozen, thawed, and left to rot. I think it had the same impact on a lot of humans round these here parts, including myself. I suppose it boils down to what you're used to. We are not used to this, and therefore it kicked our butts. Some people are complaining about the cold again, as we have warm days mixed with some downright chilly days, but not me. If it's above 15 degrees and I have running water in all my taps, and am wearing less than three layers of clothing inside the house, I am pleased. 

Yesterday I saw the hubby had mowers out for service checks, and realized that the slight greening I have noticed in the last few days has turned into growing grass. I stepped out of my old clogs and stood barefoot on the lawn, looking at my toes wriggling in the fresh green blades of grass. This and the promise of gardening makes me want to call Little Sister and ask if she's ever found her toe seeds. It is a bittersweet, quirky question I want to ask her each year.  I used to do so when we were younger, then I became more mature and considerate. Now I will just write about it for the world to read. (Ahem.)

You see, I can't look at a push mower without having a flash of memory about the day my father came to the kitchen window, the height of which was perfect for framing his handsome head and neck, not revealing whom he was holding beneath the frame. His face was ashen, his voice terrifying in its quiet depth, demanding, "Nancy, get some towels and get out here. You have to help me. We have to find Kayla's toe." 

I had just gotten back into the kitchen, having snuck out and across the lawn to climb under the fence that separated our property from the junkyard next door. But in my defense, it wasn't a junkyard so much as a repository for amazing things. Inside and outside the track that ran in an oval on the property were thousands of items that begged investigation. There were a lot of weeds, bushes, saplings and a few trees as well, which only added to the magical wonder of the place. I was barely old enough for kindergarten, but had already found a second home there in an old, tiny camper. There were old swingsets and old cars and tires large enough to host secret meetings for hunched down secret agents who hadn't yet learned how to spell their last names. But more on that later. On this particular evening I had crept over while my mother cleaned up after dinner and my father went to do outside work. I had barely been able to fix imaginary dinner in my camper trailer when I heard Mom yelling out the window. "Leandra Jean, get in this house right now!" And I had barely gotten back into the house when Dad made his appearance at the window. Apparently Little Sister had escaped my mother's gaze and snuck out after me. Dad was mowing deep in the back yard, and began to walk backward with the mower at the same time Little Sister, only a few years old, ran to hug Dad's legs, her foot sliding under the deck. It was one of those horrible things that happens to good parents for which they punish themselves forever. I would grow up to fully understand this.

I recall the rest of that evening in flashes. Standing outside looking at the grass, noticing the blades, their texture, the way they were rooted in the earth. Looking up and surveying the back yard - our playhouse, a hutch with rabbits, a scratchy spot with a burn barrel in front of the railroad running behind our property, a large mulberry tree with the dog and doghouse beneath it. Hearing frantic cries and shouts in the background. Being told to LOOK. Next, I was in the back of our car, my feet on the floorboard between the front bench seat and the back seat, hunched down, my hands grasping the top of the seat, listening to my parents' frightened voices. I rose up to peek at Little Sister, who lay on my mother's lap, very quiet and with her eyes closed. Mom was holding up her foot, which was wrapped in towels. (It's true, I wondered where the toe was being held. I didn't ask.) 

Dad, driving like a madman, kept saying "Don't let her go to sleep!" while Mom kept crying and shouting my sister's name over and over, shaking her to keep her alert. I dipped back down, pressing my face against the cool vinyl of the seat, thinking about these things and how they fit together. A thought suddenly formed and I popped up. "Is she dying?" I vividly recall my mother turning her face to me, it being splotched and streaked with a torrent of tears, which scared me worse than my sister's bleeding foot. At first she loudly said "NO!" then kept swallowing hard, trying her best to be calm while she explained "shock" to me. My parents were quite good at explaining things to me at an early age. I crouched down toward the floorboard again, worrying about how this might all work out, so I occasionally jumped up to yell my sister's name. I thought I was helping but I think I may have sent my mother into shock each time I did so. That's the last I remember of the car flight to the hospital in O-Town.

The next memories have me in a darkened upstairs room of my paternal grandparents' large home in that town. I stood at the double windows and was able to see down the pitched porch roof to where my parents stood with Grandpa and Grandma. They were beneath the old trees in the front yard in a pool of grainy yellow light that snuck over from the laundry across the street. I could see the glow of my father's cigarette as it travelled from his side to his mouth. I could hear the murmur of their voices but not the distinction of words. I was being cared for there while they had been with my sister. I remember feeling very lonely.

I would come to learn that Little Sister had indeed lived, was being cared for in the exotic realms of The Hospital, and that despite attempts by physicians, she would be minus a big toe. I can't recall how long she was a patient there but it certainly seemed an eternity, and for the first time in my young life I was consciously excited one day when told I would get to spend time with her. (I sometime resented her interrupting my "only child" plan.) I walked through the shiny doors into the large hospital lobby filled with chairs holding someone's hand, and then someone else walked in carrying my little sister. Her foot was sporting heavy bandages and tape, but it didn't slow her down when she was placed on the floor because she began to crawl with wild abandon. I walked toward her and she crawled toward me and she was smiling, smiling, smiling, and, well, it was wonderful. I hope that I will always remember that moment, because it was a good one.

Life proceeded normally despite Little Sister's missing digit. I guess I thought she would be a true invalid and we would have to take care of her forever, but she was obviously young enough that a missing big toe really didn't hamper her physical development and ability. At least not in a way I can recall. Sure, she was often a klutz, but that seems to be a family trait for we girls. There is a reason my old science teacher called me "Meanderin' Leandra."  I hear when Little Sister tripped over his trash can soon after entering his classroom he rolled his eyes and announced she was continuing a legacy.

The handicap that I didn't fully appreciate was the yearning of a pretty little girl for a toe. To always have to wear socks if she even dared to wear sandals. To sit and rub that empty spot on her foot with a sweet, sad look on her face. To beg for toe seeds. She reasoned that planting seeds made other things grow, so why not a toe? Then there was a year soon after the accident she voiced her hope for a toe in her Christmas stocking. The idea of planting a seed in her foot and watching a toe grow out of it was both fascinating and horrifying. And a toe in her stocking? Tucked in with our traditional nickel, orange, peppermint stick, and chocolate Santa? Shudder. Still, I admit that I held my breath with the terrifying hope she would pull one out. That would have been awesome.

Little Sister never really felt sorry for herself. After all, so many people have experienced worse tragedies, and she's always been a champion for others. And rest assured, a missing toe on one foot really only gave her a firmer tool with which to kick someone's a** if necessary. But still, when I stand barefoot and watch my wriggling toes in the green, green grass I think of her and wonder …

What did they do with that toe?

Content copyright © Shugacans/Leandra Sullivan. All rights reserved.