Monday, January 16th 2006
Sticks, Stones & Broken Bones
I broke my foot when I fell through a bridge behind my middle school. I was supposed to be in the car on punishment, for whatever reason, waiting for my Mom and brother to finish up his soccer game. A buddy of mine happened to live across the street from the school. He convinced me that I should escape and assured me I would be back in time before she noticed.
He may have been right, but I broke my foot and Jimmy had to carry me all the way back on his back. When I returned I found Mom fuming that I had left. I said “Mom, I broke my foot.” “You’re going to have a lot more to worry about than that when I get through with you” oblivious to the flock of concerned parents contemplating whether or not to involve the Child Welfare Dept.
The next morning my foot had swelled to twice its normal size and was a lovely shade of magenta and lilac. I was escorted to the ER promptly by mom where I gladly told them that I had in fact broken it yesterday and was refused medical treatment by my mother. There! We were even.
In the 7th grade I broke my collarbone. During winter mos. my brother and I would wear these shoes called SEBAGOS…remember them? They were rubber soled and when put to ice made skates seem stable and secure. We would leash up our golden retriever, Rambo, and would throw a ball into the yard beside the driveway. Rambo would go after it pulling us along like a one-dog sled team. Well, there were large railroad ties that lined the driveway and seperated it from the yard on either side. The snow had gotten high and the ties became even with the yard making the division impossible to see. Rambo knew of it and lept over it, allowing me to run in and over it to come crashing down on my left shoulder. I heard a huge crack. I went inside and went over to the mirror where I saw two bones sort of in a tee-pee shape. I knew that something didn’t look right and went out to the table where my mom and dad were finishing dinner. “Mom, is this supposed to be here?” I asked. I arrived at the ER 8 mins later.
Meanwhile Rambo, being the ever intelligent and empathic being he was, sensed the stress and commotion, felt really bad and I shit you not….put himself in the corner. I am not kidding, the dog would sit in the corner, nose in, until he felt adequately punished. Whenever my father would yell at him for something, he would go in the corner. After a while it was clear that Rambo was really upset and well, we could just never yell at him again knowing that he really took it to heart.
