I've
never really actually pounded the pavement, except with my butt. What
can I say? I'm clumsy. If it's possible to hurt myself, I will. I
don't know what my first experience with pavement pounding was, but
several incidents certainly stand out in my mind in rather
spectacular ways. I seem to have a proclivity for injuring my feet
the most, though my shins and knees refuse to be left out of the
action.
When
I was four, my family lived in married student housing in Cambridge,
Massachusetts, while my father attended Harvard. There were lots of
children running around barefoot and we played outside all spring and
summer. One of the boys was given a red wagon for his birthday and we
were all getting rides. I was determined not to be left out and
claimed my place in the front while two others piled in behind me.
I
started out with my feet under me Indian style, but there wasn't
enough room, so I let my toes dangle over the side. Everything was
fine until we hit a bump. I fell forward, my toes dragged on the
pavement and I took part of the nail and the tips of my big toes
clean off.
Screaming
and crying, I was carted back to my mother who cleaned and bound the
wounds, administered baby aspirin and kept me inside for the next
week. For a long time after that, I was confined by tennis shoes.
My
first major knee involvement came at age nine when I was learning to
ride a bike. The neighbors had an old, battered, dark green bike with
nearly flat tires. Jane, the eldest who was four or five years older
than I was, got me set up, ran me around and got me confident.
Feeling empowered by my new found skill, I decided to ride around the
block a few times.
Flying
along, I felt the freedom the bike gave me, enjoying the sun on my
face and the wind in my hair – until I hit a patch of loose gravel.
The bike went one way and I went the other, down on all fours in the
dirt road.
Gravel
and dirt embedded themselves in my flesh, leaving a trail of grime
and blood. Luckily for me, I fell in front of the same neighbors'
house. Their father carried me inside and their mother, a registered
nurse, cleaned me up while her daughter ran down and got my mother.
To make me feel better, Mr. Magsman got me a bowl of ice cream with
chocolate syrup. It kept my mind off the fact his wife was taking
stones from my knees with tweezers.
My
last major escapade with pavement pounding involved my right shin.
This time, in college, working summer stock at a theater in
Tennessee, I was coming off stage when disaster struck.
We
were doing Carousel
and I was singing and dancing in the chorus. I was going to the
dressing room in the basement laughing and chatting with my friends.
I really was paying attention to where I was going, but I was wearing
slick bottomed dance shoes.
There
was a rise in the floor, a step up of about ten inches. Instead of
stepping on it like I should, I missed, catching my heel on the edge
of the step. The shoe flew out from under me and I fell down,
grinding my shin against the edge of the concrete step.
Luckily,
there were several doctors and nurses in the cast as the theater drew
extras largely from the community. One of the doctors gently checked
my leg while one of the nurses held my hand and tried to calm me
down. It wasn't broken, but I had a gash in my shin down to the bone
that went from my knee to my ankle. I couldn't even get stitches
because there was no skin left.
I've
done many things to myself that defy description. None of them have
ever been life threatening, but all of them have been painful and of
major inconvenience. I'm not quite as clumsy as I was as a child, but
that's probably because I try to be more aware of what's around me.
Aside from the occasional stubbed toe, I do pretty well and avoid
pounding the pavement.
©
Dellani Oakes
For more of Dellani's books, check out
Indian Summer, Lone Wolf and The Ninja Tattoo on
Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
1 comment:
lol I was an accident waiting for a place to to happen. I stepped in fresh tar as i wasn't watching where I was stepping and my knees are scarred beyond recognition --so I feel your pain.
Post a Comment