More Living Columnists

• Dolores Sanchez Badillo: The view from the fenceline
• Mary Penner: Learning about your past is an awesome journey
• Steve Brewer: Goofy fads can hold fond memories for families

MOST RECENT TRIB STORIES

• ABQTrib.com to remain available
  08:48 a.m., February 25, 2008
• Congressman is indicted
  08:37 a.m., February 23, 2008
• Series of attacks target Green Zone
  08:36 a.m., February 23, 2008
• Iran is defying U.N., agency says
  08:35 a.m., February 23, 2008
• Waterboarding approval probed
  08:34 a.m., February 23, 2008

TRIB IN THE BLOGOSPHERE*

• Ty Murray Invitational thrills fans in Albuquerque
• Is Rome Burning?
• Ominous Skies
• The Road to Invalidation
• Albuquerque company participates in “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition”

*Note: The Tribune does not create and is not responsible for the blogosphere's headlines and stories. These links to blogs talking about ABQTrib.com are automatically generated. Use them at your own risk.

STORY TOOLS

• E-mail story
• Comments
• iPod friendly
• Printer friendly

SHARE THIS STORY [?]

The thumb's healed up nicely, thanks.

My thumb had a splinter in it, and it took me the longest time to work it out of there. Eventual pocketknife surgery made the bloody hole bigger. Then I had to get a minor infection, because, come on, a pocketknife? Duh. Break out the peroxide and a series of pointless, flapping Band-Aids.

Now that it has healed, it appears the wound will leave a tiny scar. Right in a crease, so it's all but invisible, but I know it's there, and the sight of it will always make me smile.

Because I know where I got that summertime scar. At the lake. Handling fat ropes on a houseboat with my sons.

Earlier this summer, my wife arranged to take family and friends on a rented houseboat for a three-day weekend. We had a grand time, grilling burgers and drinking wine, and catching no fish and wandering around the lake, lost.

I boarded the houseboat reluctantly, wearing my Squinty Face of Reluctance, because the endeavor seemed dangerously close to camping, which I try to avoid. But the houseboat turned out to have all the luxuries of home (including two bathrooms), if in a slightly more compact version ideal for bumping one's head.

The long weekend was less like camping and more like driving around in a large recreational vehicle. In slow motion.

Houseboats, it turns out, are heavy on the "house" and not so much on the "boat." They float, sure, but they're the slowest things on the water. Jet Skis and motorboats flew past us; the occupants sneering at our bulky scow as if we were snowbirds napping in the fast lane. Kayaks went faster than us. Geese out-swam our houseboat.

Fortunately, we didn't need speed to make the vacation exciting. Instead, we got lost a lot and had some near-misses (in slow-motion) with concrete bridge footings. To keep the sense of adventure high, we took along three daredevil teenagers who've been exposed to way too many Johnny Depp pirate movies. The boys spent the weekend leaping into the lake, scaring the fish and yelling "ahoy."

It was a lot of fun, a memorable outing; and I have this little scar to remember it by. Every time I notice it, I'll think "houseboat."

We all accumulate scars over a lifetime. Many have stories behind them, some mishap or adventure that resulted in minor injury and panic at the time, but seems funny now. At least to others.

I've got a whole collection of little scars, most of them reminders of previous vacations and Bicycles I Have Known. One nifty scar resulted from a wide sofa, a narrow doorway and a dog that wouldn't stop barking. But that's another story.

Scars are physical reminders of mistakes and accidents and close calls. Many of these long-ago events would've been forgotten by now, if it weren't for the scars that bookmark the incidents in memory.

We should bear our scars with pride. They're markers of our personal history, signs that we survived.

A footnote: I've embraced this same logic when it comes to my clothes. People fret so much over stains. I've decided that my food-spattered T-shirts are living history, a daily record of my major accomplishments. They say with pride: "This is where I've been and the things I've eaten and the hot liquids that missed my mouth!"

I'm proud to say none of today's spills have resulted in permanent scars. But it's early yet.