The day my sister hit me in the head with a hoe

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.

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