Letter to my ideal reader

I didn’t suck my thumb for overly long as a child. Thumb-sucking ceased right around the time my way-older brother and his wife accidentally on-purpose kept my Giant Kleenex and didn’t give it back when I stayed the weekend at their house. What other kids might have called their woobies, or their baby blankets, my family lovingly referred to as my Giant Kleenex — for obvious reasons I need not detail. I loved the damned thing, especially the way the fraying satin border felt as I rubbed it between thumb and forefinger at night in the dark. So comforting. But then it wasn’t there anymore and my thumbs dried up too. They’ve lived very ordinary lives since. Perhaps it’s odd then that I’m fixating on my primary digits now. It’s just that they’re such a universal symbol of human endeavor, not to mention a conversation piece once you get people thinking about their own thumb anecdotes — how they’ve cut them, hammered them black and blue, used them to hitchhike to Colorado, sprained them playing ball, sucked them, and held them up in approval.

That’s what I want this blog to be, readers, a series of stories and the conversations those stories invite.

When I say ‘thumb,’ what do you think of? I invite you into Thumbing Through.


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