May 10: "In Stitches'''

It was a little bit before noon Monday and I was hammering away at an enormous section of awning that had been wrapped around a tree in the tiny little town of Woodland, Miss., trying to finish up before we broke for lunch.

I was in Woodland, a “suburb’’ of Houston, with a group of six folks from Mississippi State as we helped out with clean-up from the big tornado a couple of weeks ago.

So there I was, slinging my sledge-hammer in the bright blazing sun, trying to dislodge the long sections of sheet metal from their metal posts.

With a thunderous smash, a piece of dislodged sheet metal flies away from its support and….

If you saw the movie “The Outlaw Josie Wales’’ you may remember a scene at the end of the movie. Josie is finally confronted with his old regiment-leader-turned-bounty-hunter. His pursuer has had a change of heart and is content to let Josie go as his eyes drift down the Josie’s boot where drops of blood fall from a wound and splat, splat, splat on Josie’s boot.

And this is precisely what I saw. Big, fat drops of blood were splattering on my left work boat. I looked at my boot, and then looked at my left hand. It was pouring blood from a couple of gashes on the back of my hand from where that piece of sheet metal had jumped up and bit me.

I didn’t think much of it at first. The gash was at a place where the blood vessels are close to the skin, so the amount of blood was not alarming. One of my colleagues started pressing on gauze from the First Aid kit onto the wound. It took about five gauze bandages to stem the flow enough to get a look at the wound itself. It was pretty deep, pretty close to the bone.

So instead of going to lunch, I went to the emergency room at the hospital in Houston.

I had to stop by the admissions desk and fill out some paperwork and answer a few questions.

The first three questions the admissions lady asked: Do you have a living will? Do you have Power of Attorney? Are you an organ donor?

“You do realize all I have is just a cut hand, right?’’ I asked.

“Oh, it’s standard procedure,’’ she said. “We have to ask those questions to anybody who comes in.’’

After I answered her questions (no, no and yes), the ER nurse examined the wound and asked me what I had been doing when I was injured.

“I was bustin’ up a chiffarobe for Miss Mayella,’’ I answered, but it was clear she didn’t get the literary reference.

“Huh?’

“I was breaking up a metal awning with a sledge hammer and one of the pieces of sheet metal cut me,’’ I said.

She seemed satisfied with that answer. She gave me a tetanus shot, bathed the wound and set up the little table for the doctor, since it was obvious I would need some stitches.

The doctor came in and began to anesthetize my hand and prepare the sutures and he made small talk.

“You’re not from around here, are you?’’ I said, having noticed a distinct accent.

“I’m from Croatia,’’ he said.

As he was busy taking care of my hand, I began to wonder how a doctor from Croatia wound up in a hospital in Houston, Miss. I’m guessing he did not finish at the top of his class at medical school, but since it was a pretty simple procedure I wasn’t too worried.

He seemed like a nice guy and he had 11 stitches in my hand in no time. I was out the door and headed for lunch with instructions to be careful not to use the hand in such a way that it might bust loose the stitches.

I had to stop by the admissions desk again. Noting on the paperwork that I have no health insurance, she wanted to know what I could pay. I looked in my wallet.

“I have $25?’’ I said.

“That’s fine,’’ she said. “You’ll be getting some information in the mail in a few days.’’

By information, I assume she was talking about a bill.

I don’t know how much the bill will be, but I do know how much I can afford to pay. The hospital in Houston is not going to be happy, I figure.

But I’ll deal with all that when I can, as I can.

After lunch, I went back out to the clean-up site and worked one-handed the rest of the day, mainly dragging tree branches and other debris and putting them on a big pile next to the little gravel road where it could be collected later.

We were supposed to stay overnight and to finish up the project, but both of our chain saws broke down, so we packed up about 5 p.m. and headed back to Starkville.

Once we get the chain-saws repaired, we will return to finish the job, probably in a week or two.

I intend to be more careful next time. I can’t afford not to be careful, I guess.