I Remember …

I was about six or seven at the time and we were living in a small suburb of Chicago named Munster, Indiana. Our street, Schreiber Drive, was the classic 1950s neighborhood, full of families with kids all around the same age. Moms at home. Dads working. Think of Beaver Cleaver’s Mayfield. There was one lot on Schreiber Drive that stayed vacant for quite awhile. It served as our football field, baseball stadium, golf course, and battlefield. During one “battle,” where we were using dirt clods as hand grenades, one took a piece out of my scalp. I barely noticed its blow, but quickly I felt a warm stream filling my eyes and running down my face. I wiped at it and my hand came back scarlet with blood! The horrified look on my playmates faces told me I was a goner. I bolted for home (just across the street) hollering for my mother, screaming, “This is the end of me.” I hoped I could make it. Now, my Mom had been a nurse before becoming a Mom and she knew that one little nick on the head could produce copious amounts of blood, but it was rarely fatal. She calmly took me into the house, washed my head with soap and water, and the bleeding miraculously stopped. After I calmed down, she said, “That’s what happens when you throw rocks at each other.” Just to be safe, the next day she took me to the family doctor for a tetanus shot.

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