A Childhood Memory

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My parents had longtime friends in Ray and Pattie Parsons. They were all the same ages and had similar interests. Both my father and Ray loved classic cars; both had owned and restored several.

My clearest memory of those days is riding in my father's deep blue maybe '40s Plymouth. It had two doors, with bucket seats in the front and a bench backseat where my brother and I would sit. It had very small and very high windows on the sides and a wide but short window in the back. The corded blue upholstery was soft and fuzzy but retained heat very well — we spent a lot of time becoming, being, and recovering from being carsick while sitting in the back there. Still, it was a beautiful car.

Dad also had a primered old Pontiac from the '50s. I will forever remember the smell of broken air conditioner system as a sort of dry, dusty celery. The upholstery was torn and the foam beneath had begun to crumble. The car had so much potential, though it needed more work than he could put into it.

That may be the curse of the men in my family; when my mother's father died in 1985, he left behind a '55 Chevy stepside pickup. My father promised me that if I helped him to restore it, he'd let me drive it when it came time. It runs now, anyway, though it's missing amenities such as a seat, windows, and most of the body besides the cab.

I think Ray owned a green and yellow Pontiac of similar vintage in much, much better condition.

The Parsons had a son my age, Aaron, and a daughter, Kellie, my brother's age. They lived only a few miles away, so we'd visit them frequently. My brother rarely wanted to play with Kellie, preferring to spend time with the older boys. We usually declined as politely as older brothers can — not very.

One afternoon, Aaron and I were in the backyard playing on his jungle gym. I must have been five or six. I was not particularly athletic. It took me until fifth grade before I could do a sit-up. (I wasn't out of shape or overweight or particularly clumsy; I played soccer halfway well. I just couldn't seem to do it.)

The big challenge on the grade school playground was to make it across the monkey bars. The short set was perhaps five feet tall. The tall set was six feet tall. If you could cross the tall set, you had really accomplished something. Until that point, I usually had to hang from the second or third bar for a moment before I could continue. It didn't work; I had to drop.

The set in Aaron's backyard wasn't nearly as imposing, but I thought it would be good practice. His jungle gym had sand underneath or perhaps it was in a sandbox. Whatever the case, there were several toys, including one large Tonka dumptruck.

Tonka toys are tough, if you believe the advertisements. I certainly do. They're indestructible to normal rough male child behavior. If you fall off of the monkey bars onto the edge of a Tonka dump truck bed, you will hurt yourself.

Somehow, I slipped from the monkey bars, not being particularly talented or careful, and hit the truck with my head on the way to the ground. I don't have a memory of this afternoon to that point. I don't remember intending to cross the monkey bars. I can't tell you that I recall seeing the truck or wondering where it came from.

Somehow, I ended up inside the house with blood streaming from a nasty gash above my right eye. Mom and Pattie cleaned me up and Pattie put a Snoopy bandage on my eye. I remember someone commenting on that.

My memory returns at the point where the doctor told me that he had my head in a tent. My mother says that he had a towel over my eyes. She also says that he gave me cocaine, though I wonder if it was actually a cocaine derivative. Then again, she was there, paying full attention, and she is a nurse.

I had nine stitches. I'd caused no permanent damage except to my eyebrow — I still have a scar.

The stitches had to stay in for a couple of weeks. Then my parents had the option of taking me back to the hospital or removing them themselves. I remember not liking either idea very much. When I woke up one morning to find them gone, I rushed out to tell my parents that they'd dissappeared overnight!

Of course, they'd sneaked into my room while I was sleeping and had removed them. Still, they gave me jellybeans for my bravery through the whole process.

The next week, my three or four year-old younger brother found a box knife in the garage and cut his wrist so deeply that he needed stitches. I told you he wanted to be like the big boys.