A Battle Wound of Glory

I'm not really the type of person who is constantly in the doctor’s office because of the latest cut or break. To be honest, (except when I was eleven and had a kidney stone) I don't think I've ever had to go to the doctors for too much more than the yearly appointments and the occasional cold that wouldn't go away.

It’s not necessarily that I haven't done things that would merit such a doctors visit. I'm an adventuresome person. My eight brothers and I have had plenty an escapade that should have ended in complete disaster, but somehow, for one reason or another, I wasn't ever the one to suffer a physical lay-back. In a way, this was sort of disappointing as a kid. All of my other siblings had scars to show other people and the stories to go along with them. In a way it was like their battle wound of glory; some hardship they had gone through and come out victorious. I, however, had no such story to tell.

The only thing I could boast about was the tiny scar on my forehead. You can hardly see it and whenever I mention it, the person looking for it has to really search before they find it. Still, it is my only mark of pride and the only story to which I can claim my fame.

It all happened on a hot summer day...

...My brothers and I were anxious to get outside. We had finally finished our chores for the day and were free to have our fun. However after a few minutes out in the hot, muggy air, we no longer felt like doing much of anything. It was one of those days where you feel like playing baseball, building a fort, climbing trees, catching frogs or playing cops and robbers, but it's just so hot out that you really can’t seem to find the energy to do any of the things you feel like doing.

The only thing that sounded halfway feasible to us was a ride on our scooter. Perhaps the thought that the downhill scooter ride might stir the air around us and somehow cool us off, was a part of this decision making process. Our old house was situated at the bottom of a hill that, for a seven and eleven year old, seemed quite large and scary when it came to rollerblading or riding down it. Jesse and I decided that this would be the plan of action for our day and went in search of the scooter. We found it in the barn with two flat tires. (It was one of those old scooters that had big rubber tires.) However, not undaunted by this fact, we lugged the scooter outside and up to the top of the hill. Next, we positioned ourselves onto it in a way that we could both hold on to the handles. I was in the front, holding onto to the middle, and Jesse stood behind me, with his arms crossing over me in order to grab the handlebar on either side of my hands.

With a push of his foot on the pavement, Jesse got us rolling. We went flying down the hill, the rubber tires squishing with a weird sound, and us screaming as we went. As we headed down the hill I was jerking the handle to the right or left and Jesse was doing the same. This caused us to tilt and wiggle crazily; which in our opinion made it all the more fun. We arrived safely at the bottom of the hill and repeated the downhill runs several more times before the tragedy occurred.

We were heading down the hill again, jerking crazily and having the time of our lives. The jerking was getting somewhat out of control because we had gotten a little bit more invigorated and daring with each run. In between gulps of air, I was laughing and wind tears were blurring my vision. We were going so fast that when we got to the bottom of the hill, instead of stopping at the end of the driveway, we kept going into our yard. We were pumped about this and Jesse suddenly gave an extra hard jerk to the right, causing me to lose my grip. We careened wildly to the right and were still going at a pretty good speed when we hit the brick. It was just a small, normal sized brick, but it was enough to stop the flat- tired scooter and to send both Jesse and I lurching forward.

My head banged hard against the handlebar and Jesse bumped into me from behind. Both the scooter and its cargo tilted to the left, before crashing to the ground leaving a tangle of arms, legs and metal in a haphazard heap. Jesse and I managed to get ourselves untangled and moved apart from each other in order to inspect ourselves. My head felt slightly warm, but other than that I felt ok. My arms had a few scratches but nothing to comment about. I bent to inspect my legs and in so doing, glanced down at my shoes.

That’s when I saw it; a bright red spot on the canvas of my favorite shoes. It was just a small drop of blood, but it was enough to send me bursting into tears. My forehead had a slight cut in it that probably wasn't even an eighth of an inch long and not much deeper, and some of it had dripped onto my shoe. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but somehow, to a seven year old, the sight of blood always makes things ten times worse.

However, after a pretty quick entrance into the house where a little bit of love and attention was administered, my grief was pretty much gone. The wound healed rather quickly leaving me with just a tiny mark of a scar.

Not much to really boast about, but it was better than nothing….

...So, there you have it. That’s my story. No, it really isn't much of a story compared to Josh's broken arm, Luke’s skin graft, Johns glass cut that almost left him crippled or Rachel’s infected scar that has left her with a deep indent on her right leg.

My story doesn’t all have all the glamour or bravery involved in their stories. But somehow, as I've grown older, I've learned to appreciate the fact that I'm not severely scarred by wounds. Such things aren't on as high of a demand as they seemed to be when I was younger. Come to think of it, I don't think it was really all that glorious when I was young either. I distinctly remember coming out of the house and feeling extremely saddened at the fact that my favorite pair of canvas shoes would be forever marked with that spot of blood.