A brother with a bullet hole in his abdomen does not sound fun, but it was exciting. My brother has always been good for a little excitement.
Like the time he locked out of the house our older brother while my mom was at work, or somewhere. The rage that builds up between brothers is sometimes so intense, that even an otherwise smart person can turn into an incredible idiot. And that's just what happened.
Craig and I were standing in the house, laughing at Kevin who was turning a dark shade of maroon, when, without any warning, Kevin sent his fist straight through the window in the top of the door. It broke the glass and sent Craig and I scurrying off to some other part of the house.
Then we heard the scream of pain come out of Kevin.
With all the courage we could muster, Craig and I carefully crept to the door and found Kevin bleeding heavily from the palm of his hand toward the elbow on the under side, close to the main blood vessles.
I immediately thought about a nurse who lived down the street a ways and I went running to get her.
Now, all of the details are blurry from there on out, but the scar that remains on Kevin's wrist and forearm are always a reminder of the outcome of rage, and teasing. I guess it should have taught us all a lesson, however...
Speaking of injuries, I had my own. It involved a parka, stairs and a pokey-outy stair rail.
This was again a time when it was just the three of us at home. Kevin was in charge and decided we would have a little fun with the force, gravity, testing its boundless energy on the only indoor labratory we could find - the stairs to the basement.
We would slide down on our rear ends and then climb the stairs for another run. Well, Kevin, being the brains in our bunch, decided something slick would increase the speed of the run, thus causing more fun.
Indeed, he was correct. The fun just got better with the increased speed. My turn came and I sat on the parka all ready to go, got a great push from one of the brothers and sped down the stairs with the greatest of ease.
The baby toe on my right foot ( I remember it was the right one because that night I solidly came to the realization of which was right and which was left) got caught on the stair rail and yanked it back toward the outside of my ankle.
Now, for any of you who knew me as a youngster of six years, you know that my lungs worked very well, indeed. I utilized the strength of my lungs and belted out for several hours while my brothers managed to get me some ice, tell me to sit in my dad's electric Lazy Boy with my foot elevated. How they knew to do that was, well, intriguing.
Mom and Dad got home and then came the ER visit and lo and behold - Buddy Tape. A lingering phrase in my life. I guess I was hoping for more drama, but at least I knew which foot was my right one.
Lesson learned...kind of.
