Burned and Broken

I was a square peg as far as kids go. My sister, "the good one," always had her straight hair in place, clothes clean, and generally, to hear the relatives tell it anyway, was a perfect little lady.

Cue four years later. Along I came, and grew into a screaming, crying, loud little terror with hair and clothes askew, who broke everything in the house and was ready to fight anyone who told me "no."

And look at me now. Hard to believe. How did that little girl grow into today's weenie? I like to tell myself it was all that hammering of my square peg into my sister's round hole. So to speak. About all that's left of that little girl is the hair. And that's what I wanted to get rid of!

When my sister and I were growing up, our boo-boo history was thusly: If the sister got hurt, it generally wasn't her fault, something happened to her, say, oh, I poked her in the eye with a Barbie doll. But if I got hurt, it was basically because I was doing something I shouldn't have. Like walking through the sticky bushes barefoot or trying to climb the latticework on the carport.

My sister was seven when she got her leg broken. Notice I didn't say she broke her leg. No, she was walking along, minding her own, probably going to church or to minister to the downtrodden or feed the hungry, when some neighborhood girl came up behind her and *whoom!* ran over her with her bicycle. One broken leg later, my sister was the talk of the neighborhood. Parents were crying, children were offering up their toys and candy, and the bicycle's pilot, whom I'm sure had become convinced her place in hell was secured, decided she'd atone by pulling my sister everywhere in her wagon. Just like in a parade. Just like a beauty queen. Hmmmm.

I was five when I broke my arm, and yes, I did it all by myself I'm proud to say. A real self-starter I was. We lived in a little house (that still stands, has been remodeled, and is as cute as a button, which is a shame since when when we lived in it it was a pit) that bordered a small neighborhood store. The store had a nice gravel parking lot out front, and at either side of the lot were white posts, about six feet apart. And through all those posts ran a cable.

The great excitement amongst the big kids in the neighborhood back then was to take a run-a-go, jump on the cable, and see how far you could spring yourself off onto the other side. My sister and her friends did it all the time. And hey, what made them so special anyway? So I decided it was time for me to try.

I tried it. Gingerly. I hopped up on the cable and hopped down onto the other side. Ahhh, piece of cake. Then I got a little farther away, and a little farther, and well, before I knew it I was hopping like the big kids. I was becoming a world-class hopper.

Or so I thought. On about my dozenth hop, something happened. A fatal foot slip. Instead of springing into the grass with a "Take that, older kids!" I went slamming face first onto the gravel before me.

And it hurt. It hurt like hell, though I wasn't allowed to say that, of course. So I just cried. I cried on the ground, I cried when my sister drug me into the house, I cried when my mother washed the gravels out of my face. We had dinner that night and she held me on her lap and tried to feed me, but all I did was cry. And if there's one thing my mother knew it was that if I wasn't eating then something was wrong. So it was to the hospital.

A few x-rays later and I was diagnosed with a fractured arm. And that was where I had my great meeting with Dr Raub, the crusty old bastard of a doctor everyone was afraid of but me. We got along like a house afire. (If you care to hear the story of Dr Raub, hit the introduction of my of July 1, 2002 blog.) I came home with a cast and a new hero.

Cut to the next year. Something happened to me that I never would have believed in my then six-year-old lifetime.

It was Halloween. By then I was in the first grade, and we were into our new house, the ranch-style on Lynn St. Me, my sister, and my cousin Jacob were all doing the neighborhood for tricks and treats. Well, treats, we weren't interested in tricks, it was all about the candy haul. It was suggested by my mom that year that I go as a devil, and if I think too much about that I'm sure I'll be forced right back into psychotherapy, but she had a cute idea for a costume and so I went with it. I had a little red cotton dresslet, red nylon tights, shoes, and the requisite horns popping out of my curly mane.

There we were, all around the table on Halloween Friday night, the sister, Jacob, me, Mom, Dad, and the grandparents B. My dad was reaching over the table to hand something to my mom and - knocked over an entire cup of freshly-poured coffee. Onto me.

(That was back in the 60s, those days of the perculator. You know, tall, silver, long spout, clear thing at the top that showed your coffee popping away in there. I see those in stores sometimes and am always tempted to buy one. Just for that coffee-shower thrill, I guess.)

It was something. The coffee was steaming hot, and right onto my red nylon devil-tights it went. It seared away at my thigh. When the folks finally got the tights off me, what was left of them, anyway, I had a massive knee-to-hip circle of burned flesh.

It's funny, because I remember the arm, and that was a year earlier. I remember sitting at the table on my mom's lap crying. I don't remember anything but the aftermath of the coffee bath. Maybe I went into shock, who knows. Anyway, there was one thing I did know. I'd broken the curse. I'd gotten an injury that wasn't my fault!

And so it was to the hospital for me. Funny, I guess nowadays I'd have been taken away from my parents and put in foster care with a burn like that, but it was a different time, and after some treatment and a huge bandage, I was back home. When I arrived, I found that my sister and Jacob had continued out trick-or-treating, with an extra bag for me. They told my sad and sorry tale at every house, and the treats flowed freely that year.

I didn't get pulled around in a wagon like a beauty queen, though. That's an honor reserved for only one member of our family, I'm afraid, and I ain't it.

(That's me up there in the cast, and my dad, btw, in the yard only feet from where the fracture took place.)

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Thanks to Mike for the above topic, "Greatest Injuries Of My Childhood."
* And now to acrowinners, all vying for that autographed picture of Mike. So, what did yall learn from pets?
- Honorable mention goes to Flipsy, with "Rears! Asses! Yummy! Olefactory manna!" A wonderful acro, but I'd be embarrassed to admit I'd learned that one particular thing....
- Runner-up goes to Mike, with "Ripping at rugs, yelping, outdoor meandering." I'd always wondered where he'd learned that....
- And this week's winner, and that autographed picture, goes to LilyG, with "Really adorable reactions, you oughta master." Because, really, it's the face, isn't it? Ask my nephew - maybe that's where he learned the "puppy dog eyes."

Thanks to all who played!