I touched briefly on this story in my last book but I believe it deserves its own extrapolation to be presented to the world for internet eternity.
It has been a family favorite over the years primarily because it shows how early on I could do really inept things. Plus my four siblings were either too young or had not been born at the time to have personally witnessed the event.
The story takes place in what we now call Wrigleyville. The year was 1956 and I was eight years old at the time.
Of course living around the Cubs ballpark meant we had four sports to play. Spring baseball, summer baseball, fall baseball and winter baseball.
The neighborhood was teaming with kids as this was still the days of the "Don't stop till you have a dozen", familial structure.
There were so many kids around that we not only segmented into groups per each city block but also each block had two or three sub groups according to their ages.
At the time of this first serious accident, I was in the middle group of eight to ten year olds on Sheffield Avenue.
I don't recall why I wasn't with my own friends my age that day. It was summer and to be sure we spent almost every waking moment together back then. Maybe they all had something else going on that day. Maybe I missed a neighborhood excursion or something else. Regardless I recollect being outside in the yard watching some of the older boys playing Tarzan. Now besides baseball, there were cowboys and Indians, Buck Rogers, Superman and Batman and Tarzan in our list of heroes to emulate daily.
What the older boys were doing sure looked like fun to this eight-year- old. They had tied a rope around a huge tree limb that ran parallel with an old but sturdy wooden fence. One after another they climbed on the fence, grabbed the rope and swung out a few feet all the while doing their best Tarzan yell.
I remember thinking that looked like fun and asking if I could try it. The older boys told me to get lost and go play with the little kids.
I went back over to the porch and just sat there watching them swing out and I do remember thinking I could do better than they if given half a chance.
Finally the older boys had enough, untied the rope, dropped it at the fence and went on to do some more older guys stuff together.
Now this was a rare occurrence in my neighborhood. In the middle of a summer day I was all by myself and the rope beckoned I show the world that I was the best Tarzan ever.
I assume I hadn't studied the dynamics of the older kids' swinging system because I decided to tie the rope high up the tree around the trunk of the tree and not the limb. Climbing up on the fence I pushed off into the air, swung out about four or five feet and came crashing head first right back into the trunk of the massive old tree.
Now this was the first time I had ever really hit my head that hard and it did hurt but not that much. I was a little concerned because blood was running down my face. It wasn't a lot but it was a sufficient enough quantity that I decided I needed a cleanup from mom.
I remember as if it was yesterday walking in the back door and asking Mom for a wipe off. I recall her screaming and throwing a cookie sheet of cookies up in the air and come running over to me.
I told her I was fine but I guess it didn't look fine to a young mom. Sticking out of the top of my head it seems was a large chunk of tree bark. My head was matted with blood and I suppose the chunk of old oak was actually preventing me from bleeding profusely from my scalp wound.
Of course dad was at work with the one car so mom quickly grabbed my baby sister, washed my face, and grabbed us both for the seven block walk to the doctor's office.
As we headed out the front door, Mom grabbed a stocking cap off the hat rack and popped it over my head.
I'm sure as we hurriedly walked to the doctor, people must have thought it was odd for a kid to be wearing a stocking cap in the summer. I will bet mom thought that looked better than seeing a little kid with a hunk of tree sticking out of his head.
The rest of the story is fairly normal. The doctor pulled the bark out, gave me seven stitches and my mom advised me that if I ever did this again the entire old tree would be embedded in my posterior let alone one small piece of bark in my head.
The accident was a red badge of courage for me though. Everyone in the neighborhood wanted to see my stitches. Stitches back then were common but seven was a total worth really bragging about.
Even the older kids wanted to check my head and count them for themselves. For the longest time seven was the neighborhood record. It would remain uncontested until a few years later I: well that's a story for another day.
Freelance writer, columnist, author and writing coach, ex-Chicagoan Mike Fak presently resides in Central Illinois. More information about Mike's services are available at his home website www.mikefak.com
Mike currently writes primarily humor columns for searchwarp bi-weekly and is the managing editor of www.lincolndailynews.com
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