Family Friday Tales

 Once upon a time, long long ago, in a far off place, well, far off from here, where I am writing, a little incident took place.  This is how the story goes...

One day when I was about four years old, my two brothers and I were on the front porch of the home where I started life on Route 110. One brother was a year older and one was a year younger than I.  Our parents had gone to a Farm Bureau meeting, which they did from time to time to learn new ways to improve the dairy farm where we lived.

On this particular day we were there at Riverbow Farm, which had been in the family since the early 1800's.  The hired man and his wife who was our babysitter when our parents went away were currently in residence at Riverbow.  It was a beautiful day so the boys and I were outside playing.

There was a white railing  with a green head piece on the porch. The boys were climbing onto the railing then jumping down onto the lawn.  They kept after me to try this excitement, too. I was averse to the idea.  I was not then, nor have I been since, a risk taker.  Having said that, eventually I gave in to their prodding and climbed onto the railing. And I jumped.

As it happens, there was a jagged eave spout right where I jumped and it gashed my lower leg in great shape.  I don't remember this part but...I probably went crying into the house where Mrs. C. probably washed it off.  Maybe she gave a little comfort. I don't know. I DO know that she put a bandaid over the "scratch".

When our parents came home late in the day, in time for milking the cows, Mrs. C. told my mother that I had jumped off the porch and that she might want to look at the little scratcht under the bandaid.  When Mother did look at it, she bundled all us children into the car and headed to Bethel to see Dr. Guilmette.  The skin under the bandaid had rolled out and had a greenish sheen on the flesh.  Icky. Scary.

Dr. Guilmette was quite good with children.  He cared for the wound and put in seven stitches as I recall.  (Remember, I was four years old...) He gave me some pills that he said would make me feel better.  Later I learned these little brown pills were vitamins.  As we were leaving, he told me that when I grew up to be a big girl and wanted to be a majorette with the school band that he could do some skin surgery and make the scar go away.  He told me there would definitely be a scar.

You can see the scar under the black and blue spot on the leg.  By this you will know that I never became a marjorette with our band.  If you do not know what a majorette is/was, in those old days when I was in elementary and high school many years ago, majorettes were baton-twirlers.  I did have a baton and I did learn to twirl it somewhat, but when it came to junior high I decided I wanted to be a musician in the band instead of one of the pretty girls out front when we marched.  I played most of the percussion instruments at different times, though much of the time it was either the cymbals or the base drum, which were nowhere near as exciting as the clarinets and trumpets.  They were heavy, however, and I was strong enough to carry them

Because my leg was not in the public eye, there was no need for plastic surgery then nor now.  The one thing about that spot on my leg, though, is that whenever I get another jab to that particular skin, when it bleeds, it bleeds very dark, almost black, blood. I have no idea why that is but there you have it, a family tale.