BUTCHERKNIFE

BUTCHERKNIFE
The mornings catch had been cleaned, the bait traps had been checked and re baited. Things were going smoothly at mid week in the fish camp. The plan was to have breakfast in the screen tent on the picnic table. The wives had quickly made plans for one of their favorites, biscuits and gravy.Little did she know that today she would get her knickname changed. Insects weren’t a problem so the screen tent flaps were tied back out of the way. At one end of the picnic table she had set up her large campstove, near the trailer that had the small deepfreeze and little refrigerator on it. It was laid out for convenience and it suited her well. She loved to cook, and was particularly good at campground cooking. She had been called “Cookie” for several years. It just seemed to fit her passion for cooking. That would change today.Most hunters, fishermen and out of doors people are a hearty lot that seem to enjoy the simple earthy things of life. They also seem able to put a “handle” on someone that fits so well that often times it couldn’t be “shaken off”. This would be one such time.A quickly prepared breakfast was in order, so she was opening a bag of frozen biscuits. As her friend made her special gravy. During the trip to the lake the refrigerator had went out and the freezer at the top had thawed out briefly. That started the chain of events that would rename “Cookie”. Something so simple that had almost no effect on the overall scheme of things, sparked a dramatic sequence of events.She knew better, but she was in a hurry. And as is almost always the case, haste can bring on disaster. It did. The brief thawing of the refrigerator had caused the biscuits in the bag to stick together. The logical thing was to put down the butcher knife and pick up a butter knife to seperate the stuck biscuits. She was in a hurry, she didn’t. When the sharp, thin, butcherknife slipped through the suddenly seperating biscuits, she had applied too much pressure.The point of the butcherknife suddenly passed through the palm of her other hand.The tranquility of the campsite was suddenly broken by her strident call, “HONEY !”,”I’ve messed up !”As he abandoned the chores he had been doing, the neighbors began to arrive. Scarey bad, was how someone described it later. He placed pressure on the wound and called for someone to retrieve the firstaid kit from the motorhome. By the time the firstaid kit arrived, he knew. The kit would not be enough this time. After a quick consultation amongst them selves, they went to a nearby campsite where a friend was camped. He was a wound care specialist that worked in a major metropolitan hospital. Later they would talk around the campfire about that fortunate turn of events.The short walk to the wound care specialist’s camp was punctuated with protests of, “I knew better than that !” “this can’t be happening this early in our vacation !” “I’m not going to the hospital !” “Honey, I’m sorry !”Later as the last of the bandage was applied, the specialist smiled and asked, “BUTCHERKNIFE, is there any chance that I might wrangle a invite to some of those famous biscuits and gravy ?”The nervous laughter from the concerned friends that surrounded her and the specialist seemed to cement the name change. By the time that they cast the jugs that evening, no one even gave it a second thought. Everyone in camp was calling her “BUTCHERKNIFE”.