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Field Ethos
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By Kyle Wright
Where I live in rural Oklahoma, it’s not at all uncommon to shake hands with a man missing a finger.
I had always assumed the stories of those accidental amputations were illustrating the best, or worst, depending on one’s perspective, of humanity’s capacity for carelessness. Trying to untangle fishing line from a boat motor prop, attempting to clear debris from the deck of a live lawnmower, endeavoring to scratch an itch while running a table saw, things like that. But I was intrigued enough by those stories that I was emboldened to ask for details when I noticed a digit was missing. As one might guess, blood alcohol content featured prominently in many of those conversations. Come to find out, though, there is often more to the story than casual carelessness or impaired sobriety. In many cases, missing a finger is even considered a badge of honor in that it’s evidence of a blue collar work ethic in dangerous fields.
For instance, losing a finger in the oil field might as well be a rite of passage. Tripping pipe on a rig has claimed more appendages than Mount Everest frostbite. A derrick hand doesn’t even have to do something wrong. A finger right where it’s supposed to be on an oil rig is still a finger tempting fate. It’s just a hazard of the job.
Speaking of deck hands, I’ve heard tell of deep-sea fishermen having their fingers surgically severed when their hands get caught up in fishing line. When a fish runs and that line is yanked taut, those fingers fly right off. The closest we get to that kind of amputation in Oklahoma is in the rodeo arena where it’s just as easy to get a finger hung up in a rope. Injury is added to insult when, after the bull bucks you off, he takes your finger as a souvenir. Still, no shame in either case.
Just the Tip
My own dad lost the tip of his middle finger in a cotton gin accident. No real story there. He stuck his finger where it didn’t belong and drew back a nub. The interesting bit is what he did with the nub. After the accident, his nail grew over the end of his finger and then hardened like a Zulu tribe member’s root ball war club. Knobkieries, they’re called. Just like those African warriors, dad used his cotton ginned war nub to devastating effect. When I acted up in church, he would lean across my mother and bounce that finger off the back of my skull. It was like getting hit in the head with a ball peen hammer.
As a minister, I have worked with people from all walks of life. One of those people was an older gentleman named Bob that was missing a quarter of his ring finger. Our church’s leadership team, of which Bob was a part, met every Sunday afternoon at 4:00 PM. To remind each other about that meeting, we started holding up four fingers when we’d see each other across the auditorium. One Sunday morning after worship I said goodbye to Bob and held up four fingers. He flashed me that same four finger salute and said, “See you at 4:00 PM.” He then looked at his hand and amended his statement. “Well, how about 3:45 PM?”
I never did ask Bob how he lost that finger. He could have done some work in the oil field, I guess. And it wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that he had been on the back of a bull, though not in any sanctioned rodeo setting, I’m sure. But the man had also seen action in Vietnam, serving not one but two tours as a helicopter pilot. As curious as I might have been about his missing digit, I decided that some questions are better left unasked.
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