One of my longtime friends here at the Democrat-Herald has rehabbed herself from something like seven knee surgeries and still stays as active as medically possible, which is way more active than most people.

“I have a lot of respect for that,” I told her years ago, and I still feel the same way.

In addition to limiting her somewhat, all the surgeries have left her with a collection of scars that are more visible during this warmer time of year, and I’m glad that she seems not at all self-conscious about them, because to me they’re badges of honor — symbols of getting back up after being knocked down.

Scars, surgical or otherwise, tend to tell our stories, or at least part of our stories. I have a number of them, and I have to admit I sort of like them. Here’s a partial rundown:

– Three arthroscopy marks from the 2002 repairs on my right labrum and rotator cuff, injuries I attributed at the time to “39 years old and 39 million throws.” The rehab was lengthy, almost a year, but now I can throw as well as ever.

– A 3-incher along my left Achilles from the 2007 removal of an old bone spur that was making walking and running fairly excruciating. Again, good as new now.

– A backwards Z on the back of my left hand from a 1984 removal of an uncomfortable and unsightly ganglion cyst.

– A 1-inch line on the back of my left index finger from a bit of saw work when I was about 10. Hey, at least the finger is still there.

– A caterpillar-sized mark on my left upper arm (turned my head to the left one day on a rafting trip 25 years ago and forgot I was, for reasons I can’t now comprehend, smoking a Swisher Sweet).

– A half-dime-sized divot on my forehead, the result of running into a neighbor’s mailbox when I was a kid chasing a flyball.

I could go on awhile but you get the idea: Scars, in many cases, are simply the illustration of the pursuit of a rich life. So if you’ve got them, likely you can be proud of them.