I read an article the other day about someone stepping on a rake, which reminded me of such an incident that left me out of sorts.
For years we kept a big garden where I grew up. A full lot was broken up each fall, by potato forks with dad and Granddad Sherman on the working ends. Over winter snow and rain would mellow the ground. Before planting they’d break up any clods left and smooth the huge seed bed with garden rakes — those with a row of tines perpendicular to the handle.
One afternoon in my zeal to help, I dashed to the garden and didn’t notice a rake lying with its tines up. That in itself was unusual. Dad was very careful about being sure to drop a rake with the tines down.
When I stepped on the tines the handle flew up and smacked me in the face. I stumbled back and, with a trickle of blood running down my face ran for the house. Mom doctored the wound — it really wasn’t much — with merthiolate, her favorite antiseptic, and a large Bandaid.
Such incidents occur when you’re young and rambunctious.
Another time dad and I were digging fishing worms along Owl Creek west of Humboldt. Near the creek the ground usually was moist enough for us to find worms — he called them slough worms, each about as big as a lead pencil and half again as long — in generous numbers. The place also occasionally was used for a trash dump.
As dad dug, I picked up worms. I noticed one really nice one about to make its escape and took an ill-advised step over something on the ground. When I fell I caught myself on the palm of my left hand, on top of a broken bottle. I still have a half-inch-long moon-shaped scar as evidence of the misstep.
Dad, a medic during World War II, said I might have to have stitches to close the deep wound. Mom thought otherwise. She bandaged it tightly several days in a row, and it finally healed.
When I was a little older, my buddies and I rode our bicycles everywhere. One morning I raced outdoors, jumped on my bike and took off across the backyard.
I had forgotten about the No. 9 wire clothes line. The wire hit just about chin level, which was bad enough, but there was more.
I was knocked off the bike’s seat and fell astraddle the bike’s cross member. Well, you know how that felt. I walked kind of funny for a couple of days … and I never again forgot the clothes line.
At Week’s End: Danger lurks when you’re young
