I have a Blinky cursor this day in my writing app.
It has been sitting there, pulsating between on and off, for quite some time now.
Here is the problem. I’m not so fond of the times when people drone on about catching a cold, or stubbing a toe, or falling off their couch while trying to reach the clicker. We all have our scrapes and bumps. And nobody really likes to hang out with a whiner.
But I just had surgery a couple of days ago, and my body isn’t feeling so great. At the moment, it seems to be my only prevalent thought. The truth is, I’ve been whining. And my cursor won’t quit blinking.
Most of the time, I try not to write about those things. I take exception, however, to relaying certain stories about my childhood, or past. Things that may be completely relevant to the current day’s alignment of the universe, and all its bodies.
Like the time I was being pulled in a wagon down our hill on Bruce Avenue. I was probably 5 or 6 years old. I was the youngest kid in our family, and down in the ranks, on our entire block. But there we all were, and someone thought it would be a great idea to put the little kids in the wagon, and give them a fast ride.
The girl in charge of the handle, and running like a banshee, was Collette Jackson. She was the fastest kid in the neighborhood. There were two or three of us in the back of the wagon, and we were really moving, I’ll tell you. The wind in our hair. Shrill screams of delight in our voices. It felt like we were breaking some kind of land-speed record. And then, the notion hit Collette’s brain. It fired a spark in there somewhere. Suddenly, it seemed like an incredibly good idea to let go of the wagon handle. So she did.
The handle dropped down, and hit the cement. It may have skidded for a blink, and then it found its mighty hold in the deep crease of the sidewalk. It stuck there as sure as the grip of Excalibur. And the wagon lunged, the back end surging forward and catapulting us like pebbles from a slingshot.
It was sheer mayhem and pandemonium. What were once the chirps of happiness, swiftly transformed into the screams of holy terror. I don’t remember who was in the wagon with me, but all three of us suffered some pretty decent road rash. My face and arms took the biggest punishment.
At this point there was panic. The worst thing of all this, we were at the west end of the block, where the big hill was. Our two families, the Kronenbergers and the Jacksons, lived at the opposite end of the street. There were injured kids that needed to go home. One of the older kids, suggested that we get back in the wagon, so they could pull us down the street to our homes.
One of the older kids, suggested that we get back in the wagon, so they could pull us down the street to our homes.
One of the older kids, suggested that we get back in the wagon, so they could pull us down the street to our homes.
I am pretty sure I crossed my arms over my chest, and made it known, that I wasn’t getting back in that damn wagon, even if my life depended on it. I may have been five, but I wasn’t stupid.
Truthfully, I don’t remember much more of that day. But I am certain my brother Ed was either there, or came onto the scene. I can remember him taking care of things. Like my good big brother always did.
And that is how it went. So yes, I may be inclined, from time to time, to write about those sorts of events.
This is my second hernia operation. I completely resisted having this one done. The last experience was not so great. So I knew what might be ahead. And here it is.
And I liken it to five-year-old-me, standing at the back of that wagon, in clear opposition of getting back into that beast.
Thankfully, this is just a little bump in the road. A little scrape on the nose. Like that ride in the wagon, our days sometimes get a little toppled. We can either get back in and ride. Or, find another way to get where we need to go.
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“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”
― Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
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“Just like there’s always time for pain, there’s always time for healing.”
― Jennifer Brown, Hate List
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“Only time can heal your broken heart. Just as only time can heal his broken arms and legs.”
― Miss Piggy
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