Growing up on the family farm in Saskatchewan, there was lots of work to be done, but as kids, we also had freedom and space to play. We used our imaginations to create things to do and to solve our problems.
Our schemes didn't always go as planned, and occasionally injuries ensued. The question, "How did you get that scar?" forever followed. The pain was worth the gain as the stories live on decades later.
My family has an interesting dynamic as my parents had two children when they first married in 1947, two more after twelve years and one more seven years later. There are few pictures of the five of us together growing up.
One of my brothers and I are in the middle of the pack. Only twenty months apart in age, we were always together.
In the back is Dad, my oldest brother and my older sister. Me pissed off because it was not my party.
Our schemes didn't always go as planned, and occasionally injuries ensued. The question, "How did you get that scar?" forever followed. The pain was worth the gain as the stories live on decades later.
My family has an interesting dynamic as my parents had two children when they first married in 1947, two more after twelve years and one more seven years later. There are few pictures of the five of us together growing up.
One of my brothers and I are in the middle of the pack. Only twenty months apart in age, we were always together.
My brother and our little sister. What the hell is going on with my bangs? Cowlicks for days.
Bangs are better, but those pants…. The expression on my face says, “Don't be fooled by their innocent looks”.
In 1970, when we were eight and ten, we had a few plugin toys and television with a couple of snowy channels but no other electronics. Our days were spent playing outside, whether we wanted to or not.
My brother desperately wanted someone to play catch with. Our older siblings were grown and gone, and our little sister was a toddler. He convinced me to stand against the garage door, and he threw the ball to me repeatedly, hoping I would catch it once and toss it back. This activity didn't go well; I remember the sound of the ball slamming into the wooden garage door by my head.
I have an extreme flinch reaction when something is thrown at me. This unfortunate trait involves eye blinking, shielding my head and face with my hands and turning my back. I can't catch anything or make a decent throw to save my soul. You may wonder if I was selected for the school softball team. No, I was not.
One day, we were playing in the bale stacks behind the barn. Fresh stacks of square bales were a dream come true. It was like having a massive fort. We climbed up and ran along the top.
We started playing a somewhat friendly game of war. The weapons of choice were hockey sticks. I stuck my head over the top of the bales at the exact moment my brother threw a stick to me or at me; I'm still not sure which.
The hockey stick hurtled toward me, and I stretched my arms out to catch it. I miscalculated, and it hit me right between the eyes, leaving a gash. OK, it wasn’t a massive gaping wound, but it was bad enough. I could’ve lost an eye.
Crying loudly for maximum effect, knowing the more noise I made, the bigger the trouble my brother would be in, I climbed down and stomped to the barn where Dad was working. At that point, my brother took off for parts unknown.
Dad slowly slid the heavy barn door open to see what the commotion was about. There I stood, straw dangling from my hair, crying and bleeding.
To slide the hanging door open from the outside, you had to pull on a chain that served as a door handle with one hand and on the door with the other. You can see how the wood was worn from being opened many times. We usually were too lazy to push it open, so we slipped through the crack between the door and the frame. In my weakened condition that day, I couldn’t possibly have opened the door by myself.
Mom didn't have a driver's license then, so Dad got cleaned up and drove me the thirty miles to the hospital in Shellbrook.
After we left the hospital, we went for ice cream. Dad and I seldom went anywhere, just the two of us, so that part of the day is a good memory.
One side of my face was numb from the freezing I had received before they stitched me up. I remember the pure joy of slurping that ice cream using the functioning side of my face.
When we arrived home, everybody had calmed down, and my brother had returned to the house.
He felt terrible for injuring me. I'm sure he couldn't throw a hockey stick with that level of accuracy again if he tried, but I don't want to find out.
I learned the importance of keeping my head down when necessary for self-preservation. My sibling finally accepted that I couldn't catch and never hit me between the eyes with anything again.
Adversity didn't hold us back for long. Once the stitches were out, we were planning our next ill-fated adventures; building a raft or a tree house or deciding to walk the five miles to the pasture and live there seemed like doable options.
There is strength in our scars; they teach us that it is okay to move on if we try something and find it isn't for us. They also symbolize resilience and courage.
Listen to the audio version of Right Between The Eyes
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