Red-Blooded Falcon

I hear that our Falcon is a little under the weather today from his chemo. Nasty stuff, that chemo. But if anybody can get through it in good spirits, Falcon can.
This is a memory from our high school days, way back in the mid-70’s. Our families were close, and we were always the last bunch to leave the church after every service. While many Sundays held interesting mini-adventures, this night was a little different. There was blood.

It was after the Sunday night service, and our parents were talking up a storm at the back of the church in the Fellowship Hall. Us kids were messing around at the front of the sanctuary. Falcon took up the position of the preacher at the pulpit and issued an invitation to the imaginary congregation to invite Jesus into their hearts, or else, punctuating the altar call with a switchblade. As expected, he got a huge laugh from the small contingent of teens sitting on the platform and in the first couple of rows of pews.

With the resounding laugh that ensued, he panicked a little, not wanting to draw parental attention, and he went to close the illegal dagger real quick-like.

With the swift and nearly sure move stopped midway, Falcon sliced the tiny vein in his class-ring finger, left hand. Blood spurted out of the digit across the pulpit in a thin, red arc. His surprised expression was funnier than his ultimatum of an altar call. I had seen the stream of crimson and his right hand immediately applying direct pressure to the wound, a good Boy Scout move.

He pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the dripping finger and held it tight. He then told Falconette to go tell our parents that we were ready to go and that he was going to drive us home in his car. We wiped the blood from the pulpit and made our exit through the office to the parking lot.

So our brave, bleeding pilot drove home with his finger being gripped by a bloody handkerchief and his right hand leaving me to shift the Falcon 3-on-the-tree.

“VrroooOOom-SECOND-vvrroooOOOom-THIRD-rmmmmmmmm-squeek, (stop sign).
FIRST-vrrrrooOOOOM-SECOND…” etc. I don’t remember much after that, the excitement having been spent on the gear-shift end of the 64 Ford Falcon “ambulance”.

Hope this makes you feel a little better, Falcon. Just be careful with sharp instruments and chemotherapy!