In Praise of Left Hands

Mike took a bad spill off his bike two weeks ago. His front wheel fell into a crack in the pavement which apparently led all the way to the Earth's core, and swallowed his wheel up to the forks, sending Mike flying and landing onto his left hand. As injuries go, this was a lucky one, since it broke his left index, tore open his left thumb, but Mike was wearing a helmet and hit his head and suffered no injury there. Also unscathed were his clavicle, shoulder, neck, back, eyeglasses, and the hundreds of other bones, ligaments and accessories that could have been damaged.
Lucky though it was, it has really made us realize just how much work (how much thankless work) our left hands do. Coincidentally, buddy Rob had his left hand operated on two days after the accident, and so the two of them could compare notes on how hard it is now to open jars, slice bread, wash dishes, etc. And the throbbing is enough to drive you batty, I understand.
I remember when I was a teen one summer I got to hang out a lot with my brother Francois, an artisan carpenter. One time, he met with another artisan, and they compared notes on their work injuries (war scars) and Francois commented that it was always the left hand getting hurt, the one you forgot was in the way of the drill press or the table saw blade.
For us right-handed folks, the left hand is there to do all the things required to leave the right hand free to do the glorious work. The right hand writes as the left hand holds up your head. The left hand inevitably holds the baby as the right hand gestures and holds the phone. The left hand is the wife (on days like today when I'm wiped out, that's how it feels). Here's to the forgotten and lovely left hand. At least it gets to wear the ring.