If you don’t have scars, have you really lived?
I’m not talking about metaphorical heartbreak scars. I mean the real deal. The kind that involves blood loss, a questionable idea, and a parent awkwardly explaining to the medical personnel how a bedsheet didn’t work out as a parachute.
Technically, it opened…just not before impact.
I do wonder what kids do for entertainment these days. From what I’ve seen, most of their adrenaline rush comes from shooting pixelated enemies and scrolling TikTok with such furious thumb agility, you’d think the fate of the free world depended on it. No wonder parents have fewer ER copays.
I wouldn’t trade raising my kids on a farm for anything. They were cornered by geography and a lack of a driver’s license, which forced them into ingenuity. If they wanted out, they had to barter their way into a ride from mom or dad.
These days, it’s a twist of fate I didn’t see coming: my oldest son Joey and his family are back on the same farm, raising their own little crew. My grandsons were born for this life and the mayhem that comes with it. They have chickens to chase, eggs to gather and kittens to love on. Always close siblings, now even more so, bonded by sibling necessity.
Parker and Paxton are learning fast that having livestock occasionally means discovering the not-so-thrilling concept of also having dead stock. It’s all part of the curriculum. One minute you’re naming a hen and the next you’re holding a chicken funeral. The farm doesn’t sugarcoat life – it serves it sunny side up with a lesson tucked into every feather.
Joey, like his father before him, absorbed shop wisdom by osmosis. He learned how to get a motor running, how to back up a trailer, which came in handy when he bought his first fishing boat, and how to fix just about anything with the right elbow grease. The nearby creek provided his early fishing education, until it decided to teach him the hard way.
His beloved tacklebox, passed down after his grandfather’s passing, became a creek casualty, left too close to the lower bank after a night of heavy rain. Watching Joey return home empty-handed, the weight of his panicked search etched across his face, pained his father and me just as much as it did him.
He’d always been responsible, never once forgetting the tackle box. But of all the times to slip, it had to be the one night a heavy rain rose the creek just enough to carry it away.
That tacklebox housed old lures, still in their original boxes, and it was saying goodbye to a legacy as much as it was to just some old fishing gear. That old metal tackle box was a part of Dad, and I was tickled pink when Joey asked if he could have it after dad’s passing.
My daughter, Jill, appreciated the farm for the solitude it provided. It gave her room to launch herself into gymnastic routines across the front yard, her mini tramp bouncing with Shannon Miller level enthusiasm. She thought nobody was watching. Sweet, naive little girl! The best part was when she’d freeze mid-pose, as if she’d just been caught in a heist. I knew exactly what was happening. A car was approaching.
Car passed. Routine resumed. She stuck that final pose with a proud salute to the imaginary judges.
Then there was Mark, the youngest. He soaked up the serenity, snuggled with the kittens, and still returns to his brothers farm, each visit marked by the planting of something – a tree, a bush, meant not to just grow, but to linger and add beauty to the landscape.
I didn’t grow up on a farm, but I didn’t grow up on a screen either. We had to invent excitement. And occasionally, invent reasons for stitches.
Take my forehead scar. It’s courtesy of a neighbor kid who thought tying a metal horseshoe to a string was the recipe for fun. What do you do with a horseshoe on a string? Swing it, obviously, like a cowboy with a lasso and questionable judgement.
I wasn’t even in the danger zone. Until the string broke mid-air and my forehead became a tragic trajectory interrupter. Cue blood. Cue stitches. Cue story for life.
I have a faint scar on my chin too – not from adventure but from ambition. As a toddler, I apparently scaled dad’s dresser in pursuit of his razor. Having watched him shave countless times, I must have wondered, “How hard can it be?” Mom didn’t think stitches were needed. Time disagrees. So does the scar. Luckily for me, scars fade over time. Unfortunately, so does beauty. But let’s not go there.
My older brother has a good scar too, courtesy of payback. One day while ice skating, he chased me around the rink until I’d had enough. I dove headfirst into a snowbank, unfortunately with my upward pointed skate positioned like a weapon. He landed. There was contact. There were stitches.
I remember looking at the rip in his snowpants as he tried to see what damage was done. I swear I saw guts hanging out. I didn’t – but imagination is generous.
Honestly, kids today might never earn scars the way we did. Unless they trip over a charging cable or walk head-first into a brick wall while trying to nail that perfect selfie.
Their wounds are emotional: a frozen app, a shattered screen, 3% power left or a lost Wi-Fi signal. They spend so much time gazing at screens, their thumbs get more exercise than their legs. Their idea of adventure is switching Wi-Fi networks without permission. The odds of getting a good forehead gash? Pretty slim. Poor, disadvantaged babes.
Time for a toast. Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand high: “Here’s to the kids who had to build the fun they dreamed up – and earned their scars doing it. May the next generation discover that real ingenuity doesn’t come with a charger, and the most unforgettable moments happen after the screen goes dark. Cheers!
