I was born in Atlanta, Georgia, but we lived In Waterville near Toledo, Ohio, next door to my grandparents, until I was four.
[googleMap name=”Waterville, OH” description=”Lived in Waterville when I was little. Try satellite view to check out the terrain.
Google has been busy. Even this little town is on Street View now.” width=”550″ height=”300″ directions_to=”false”]waterville, oh[/googleMap]
I have mostly hazy memories of our time there, but a few experiences stand out, even after all these years. One event leaves only vague impressions; instead of being a definite series of occurrences defining a narrative arc, it is more of a collage of images and sensations all related to the same time span on a particular afternoon.
My sister and I were playing in the sandbox behind our house. She was a year younger than I, and for the most part we played together without any tension or problem between us. At a certain point, however, I realized that she had raised a toy hoe, about three feet long, and was, without any apparent rancor, bringing it down on my head. I remember quite clearly the grinding, scraping sound as the metal blade hit my skull. Any wound to the scalp bleeds profusely, and I recall a lot of blood pouring down my face as I ran to the house to find my mother.
I had to pass through a hallway and up a few stairs to get to the kitchen through the side entrance. From that point until some hours later, all I remember is a blur of images, noises, and sensations. I remember being under the bright lights of the emergency room, but not how I got there. I remember the sensations as the doctor cleaned the wound and gave me a stitch or two. I don’t remember my mother’s face or the faces of any of the other actors in this drama. I only vaguely remember going home.
One of the clearest memories of this event and my time in that house is of a blood stain on the wall right where I climbed those few stairs to the kitchen. It was not a smear of a bloody hand on the wall. It was just a small trail where a drop of blood had hit the wall and dribbled down some two or three inches. That mark had great significance for me at that age, and I never passed it without some sort of reaction. I might remember the sound of the hoe against my skull. I might remember the image of my sister about to strike. I might remember the bright lights of the ER. I always regarded the blood stain with a certain awe, though, skirting wide of it, never touching it.