One Finger Phil

All week I’ve been doing some work at a friend’s house and using his chop saw. It has seen better days. The link that pulls the guard up when the blade goes down is just hanging and the plastic guard is taped in the up position, leaving the full ten-inch blade exposed. It’s a little un-nerving when cutting little pieces and it takes a little more time to do anything because I want the blade to come to a complete stop before getting my hands in there to retrieve my cut pieces. All week long I kept hearing Dennis Martz’ voice calling me “one finger Phil”.

In the early seventies Brant, Dennis, Bruce and I headed north in Brant’s van. In Bend Oregon Bruce got out and hitchhiked east, ending up in Boston. We proceeded north to a little town called Cle Elum and camped outside town. Eventually they rented a house in the south side of town and every day Brant would disappear. One day he came back and says something typically cryptic like, “Do you want to go to my house?” He had been exploring and found a little town called Roslyn a few miles away and had arranged to buy a house from Guzzi Realty. The house had all the major appliances, was two story and cost around fifty five hundred dollars. We walked the road passed the high school into Roslyn and rooted around his new place. It was a fixer upper, big and dirty and falling apart, but that wasn’t a big issue. We explored until dark, found a French fried potato cutter in the basement and walked back to South Cle Elum where we fried up some greasy spuds.

It wasn’t long after that that Martz bought a place and soon Dale came up from Brea and bought one too. It was a deal too good to pass up. We had a little “Brea north” going for a while and it was idyllic.

One day we were building a new staircase for Dale’s house. Me, Brant, Dennis, Dale and probably others too (it seems like there was a crowd when I think back on it) were working away. It was community tool chest, you grabbed whatever you needed off the floor or out of the truck and tended to your project. I think I was cutting treads for the stairs. I’d set the tread up on the case, hold the length mark with my thumb, then I’d squat down with the board across my lap, lay the Skill Saw where the cut needed to be, then put it back on the staircase for support while making the cut. This worked fine, but Dennis could see that it was an accident waiting to happen and started calling me “one finger Phil”. I had complete confidence in my technique a scoffed at his reference.

Phil was one of our buddies growing up. He was everyone’s friend and was recently referred to as "one finger Phil", having just lost his digits in a lumber mill accident. He didn’t make it too long into adulthood; a short time later he was killed trying to avoid a deer that had jumped into his car’s path in John Day Oregon.

The saw I had been using was getting dull, so I picked up another one and set it on the board resting on my thigh. This saw had a different safety switch, or no safety switch, and when I picked it up to go to my staircase cutting station it started running. I wasn’t prepared for it to go. The blade caught the edge of the board, kicking it out from between the blade and my denim covered leg. As durable as Levis are, they are no match for an electric saw with a 7 1/4” blade. It cut through my pants and plowed through my leg. I set the saw down right away.

Well, I looked at the wound and got depressed; I didn’t want that to happen. I announced that I cut my leg and wanted some else to look at it, which was met with the usual calls of “lightweight” and “get over it”. Dennis came over and looked at it. “Wow, you need to go to a doctor.” he said with no alarm in his voice. This was the response I was kind of hoping to hear. The saw had cut deep, the entire depth of the blade, which is about 3 1/2” deep, and ran diagonally across my thigh for about nine inches. A filet. The nerves were all cut too, so there was no sensation of pain. And it didn’t bleed a drop. It wasn’t even red, other than the red color of red meat.

I don’t remember the particulars, it has been thirty-five years or so, but there are no hospitals up there and so Martz took me to the ranger station. There we found the ideal ranger. He was older than us; we were just out of high school, but young for being a guy in a uniform. He was in the Navy and volunteered for this duty, fixing up errant locals who might have the occasional hunting accident or be bucked off their dirt bike. He assessed the situation quickly and started picking the frayed fabric out of the gash. “How come it doesn’t hurt? I asked. “You cut the main nerve that runs through here, that may be a blessing, but you may never feel anything in your leg again.” He spoke slowly and with authority, and was a very cool guy. “How come there’s no blood?” was the next obvious question. ‘Well, there’s two ways for bleeding to stop, you know about coagulation…” (Of course we knew about coagulation) “But that’s only for small cuts and abrasions. What happens is (at this point he interlocks his fingers at ninety degrees, one set of fingers representing veins and the other layers of skin) your veins and arteries are elastic and when you cut them they retract into the layers of skin, pinching off the blood flow.” As he said this he slid one set of fingers out from between the others which closed together as they left. “You have very elastic veins and they were pinched off before there was a chance to bleed.” I looked at Martz with astonishment.

Now that the wound was clear of debris he got out a syringe. “What’s that for?” “Well it was a dirty wound and I want to stop any infection from spreading” I really liked that he gave the name of the drug, how it worked and why I needed it. “It’s not gonna make me vote any different is it?” “He didn’t even look up “How’d you get so paranoid?”

Next it was time to sew it up. He started from deep inside, bringing the layers together slowly, row after row, until he got to the top where he used a different pattern of stitching, more decorative. Dennis took me back to the remodeling party and I kind of watched for the next few days, hobbling around on a crutch, trying to stay out of the way and look involved at the same time. Eventually the feeling came back to my leg and there’s still the impression of a great looking scar.

All week I’m using this chopped up chop saw and I can see how easy it would be to loose a digit in this contraption. Martz’ good-natured voice kept repeating with every stab at the trigger, “Hey Phil”. As a result, the project was finished with no injuries. Thank you Martz for reminding me, this time I listened.

Rip Van Winkle

It must’ve been winter of 1973, between Christmas and New Year when Arizona’s desert snow was deep and drifting against the side of the road. Diane Smith’s parents were out here for the holidays and had some sort of a need to go to Bullhead City. I had some sort of need to go to Phoenix so it came to pass that I would drive everybody to Bullhead, drop them off and take the car down to Phoenix, do my gig, come back and pick ‘em up for the return to Brea. The trip to Bullhead had no memorable moments, and once in Bullhead the most amusing thing to do was take a little ferry across the Colorado River where there was a single casino.

I headed on down to Phoenix, and headed back in the evening. It was very cold. The snow on the mountains in the backdrop continued down to the flatlands, resting on top of the Bob Ross sagebrush and piled high against the roadway. I drove the complex monotony of the highway well into the night, evenly spaced telephone poles keeping time for the music in my head. Then it occurred to me that one of the poles had seemed different. There was a weird bush or scarecrow or something a ways back, and with the carefree spirit that once dominated my actions, I turned around to investigate.

Sure enough, a few miles back there was a forlorn figure. An old man with no coat and bare feet was almost frozen solid, attached to a pole like a tongue to an icebox. I opened the passenger door and hollered for the guy to get in. He moved in small painful gestures and took an inordinate amount of time to pry his frozen limbs into the car.

We sped off, heater cranked up full blast and he shook. He shuddered like nothing I’ve ever felt before; it was like the wheels were going to shake off the car. I had nothing to offer him but a cold beer, which he declined, and the heat from the vents, which he accepted with silent grace. He was a perfect throwback. He had that drawl that you equate with hill people, speaking slowly and clearly with simple words that spoke volumes. He had on a dress flannel shirt, like a Pendleton or something, and those nifty sans-a-belt pants with the built in crease; obviously his go-to-meetin’ attire.

After a time he was able to speak. He thanked me and introduced himself as Gene Van Winkle, a miner up the mountains who liked the drink and was frequently ripped, hence his nickname, Rip Van Winkle. I asked him how he came to be attached to a telephone pole with no shoes a hundred miles from anywhere and he told me his story.

Rip had been married for all eternity. She was a good woman; looked after him, took care of all his needs and was patient with his ways. She passed away just after Thanksgiving. Being lonely he decided to head into the city for a little companionship. He loaded a few provisions in his truck and made his way down the hill to Phoenix. There he was making new acquaintances in a tavern when he was invited to a woman’s room. He went. No sooner that the door closed behind him than he was struck from behind, robbed of his wallet and keys, his coat and his boots, and most regrettably, his wedding ring. He knew he didn’t like city people and had reservations about going off the hill, but loneliness got the better of him and ultimately clouded his judgment. So we rode along for a long while, telling me stories a miner tells until we came to the crossroads where I continue on the 93 and he goes up the hill on 89. Only he had no way to go up the hill. I gave him all my reasons why I couldn’t go up the hill and he gave me all his reasons why I couldn’t leave him there. I had a schedule to keep in someone else’s car, which was low on gas. It was colder now than when I found him and there was no shelter here or chance for another ride. He won and we went up the hill to a little town called Yarnell where he lived in his trailer.

He opened the door and turned up the heat. We talked a little more, but he was exhausted and I was tired. He went to his room and I slept with one eye open under a pile of Indian blankets on the living room floor. In the morning he made himself coffee and we looked at pictures of the wife. He showed me his outbuildings that contained his prospecting equipment, picks and pans and such. He pulled out a neat piece of petrified rock he had cut and polished and kindly gave it me. I said had to leave, being very late already. “No no, you must take me around to the neighbors so I can tell them the story of how you saved my life.” We filled my gas tank from a 55-gallon drum fitted with a hand crank and spent the better part of the morning going through rock trails. First to one trailer, then another, where Rip would tell his tale and how he was froz’d to the pole and all. The neighbors were all suspicious of a strange car pulling on to their land and even looked at Rip with a bit of trepidation until he told them who I am. Once it was plain I wasn’t a revenuer they warmed like the late morning sun.

Soon we said our goodbyes. He must’ve in his seventies and I thought I should make my way back to see him sometime. I was rolling down the hill with my petrified pet rock sitting next to me, thinking about his life, needing both isolation and companions, but not too much of either. Even though I liked the idea, I knew I’d never make my way back. This was a secret place, hidden from time; where outcasts and fugitives burrow between the mountain rocks, where I‘d returned an thawed out old man one cold cold night.