Brained

The first injury I can recall happened when I was about two years old. I lived in a coal mining town (Lando Mines) in southern West Virginia.

It was a dirty, grimy place with gray houses and crushed coal used for gravel on the roads. We lived in a deluxe house that had indoor plumbing, and the monthly rent was $25. If you didn't mind using an outhouse, you could get a cheaper house for only $15 a month.

Two houses up the road from us lived my best, and only friend, John Bentley. John was a lot older than me - having just turned 3, and a lot bigger too. We played in the dirt and dust almost every day, and generally got along well.

One day in early summer, I got a wonderful new toy. It was a toy fire engine...bright red, and painted with gold trim and numbers. It was made of cast metal, and had wheels that worked. I loved to set it down on a slanted board and then watch it roll all the way to the bottom. I could hardly wait to show it to John!

As I'd expected, John loved it immediately, and we played for a couple of hours just rolling it on a board, and making crude imitations of a siren sound. Then nap time approached, and I was getting pretty sleepy. I picked up the toy, and started for home to get my much needed shut eye.

Well...John was not pleased at this turn of events, and he tried to grab the truck out of my hand. I wasn't about to let him have it, so I wouldn't let go. After struggling for awhile, John decided to try a new approach. He picked up a nice size rock from the ground and bashed me in the head with it. My inclination to not give him the truck disappeared immediately, and the blood washed down into my eyes and all over my face.

John screamed in triumph, and I screamed in pain. His mom came out to see what was going on, and she started screaming too. To be honest, my head wasn't hurting much and I was screaming mostly because I'd never seen so much blood in my life. So, when Mrs. Bentley started screaming too, I knew that was not a good sign...so I increased the volume of my own screams too.

She ran down the stairs with a dishtowel in her hand, and started mopping the blood out of my eyes. Then she wrapped the towel around my head like a turban in an effort to stop the bleeding. I think it worked pretty well, and at least kept blood from getting in my eyes again.

She kept asking me how I managed to hurt my head like that, but hey lady, I was only two and had only mastered few words. All I could do was point at John and cry. She couldn't figure out what I was trying to say, and so just pointed me toward my house and said I'd better go home.

So, I left with her dishtowel adorning my now throbbing head, and John kept my fire engine. I decided that was ok because it was red, and I didn't care much for that color anymore.

Lessons I learned: Don't lose your head over anything - especially a toy fire truck.