Doesn't Everyone's Toenail Fall Off In June?

For forty-seven consecutive summers I have unceremoniously lost my left big toenail. Not lost it like, "Hey kids, have you seen my toenail anywhere?" More accurately I guess I lose it like, you know, the damn thing falls off. Admittedly it is only half of the toenail, and I have more than once, way more than once, given the dying chunk of keratin the final tug. As the pictures show, it is not a pretty toe. "Oh my God look at that thing!" is a common reaction when people first see it. Not the Shakira dancing in tight leather pants "Oh my God look at that thing." It's more the closeup of Steven Tyler's face on American Idol "Oh my God look at that thing."I have never entertained the fantasy that I may some day become a world famous flip-flop model. Nail polish companies are not pounding on my door.

 So, what's the deal with my toenail. Some mistakenly blame it on a cinder block. My mom always told it that way, but it was not a cinder block, it was much more glamorous than that. It was a big chunk of conglomerate stone, a large fossil from the pile of small boulders my dad proudly called "The Rock Garden." I was three years old, but I can still remember it. Not like it was yesterday, I can't even remember yesterday like it was yesterday, but I remember the good parts. I can remember I was wearing a pair of blue shorts and a white tee shirt with two wide red stripes. Don and I were doing something, probably something we had been told in no uncertain terms not to be doing, in the yard. My guess is, and this is a guess based on years of research on the subject of Don always conning me into doing something stupid, my brother was  probably conning me into doing something stupid. Here is where my memory is razor sharp. Don had that big hunk of stone in his  five-year-old grip, but his grip was failing him. One look at his face, Don truly was an ugly kid, and I knew he couldn't hang on much longer. He dropped that heavy son of a bitch right on my left  big toe.  I can remember it vividly. I remember the explosion of blood, my scream, my mom charging out the back door ready to bawl me out for  screaming, blood everywhere-pumping out from under my mangled toe with each heart beat.  The only thing I don't remember is what Don did after he smashed my freaking toe. A nice thought would be that he ran to get help, apologizing profusely for permanently scarring his little brother to anyone who would listen. A more realistic scenario would involve him laughing at my shrieking and wondering how I could be stupid enough to let a huge rock fall on my toe.

My mom picked me up in her arms and lugged me to the kitchen. She was no longer pissed at me for screaming, she was now mad I got blood on my shirt and shorts. Keep in mind I was the sixth child of this woman. She had seen her share of bloody knees and noses. Skin heals but damn it clothes are not cheap. I remember my mom holding me up to the sink, it was in a different location in the kitchen then, and running cold water over it. That's it. The toe was crushed, the nail split in two. It truly is ugly as hell.

Now comes the weird part. Since that summer day in 1964 the big, gross, deformed half of the toenail falls off every June. A few times it was gone in may, a few more it hung around until July, but June is the target date. Who knows why it does this? I have never asked a doctor. I guess, I just like looking forward to June. As of today it is still with me, but loose as hell. I will keep you posted.