fearing the switch

 

A couple of days ago I got a new hair cut.  It's cute but short, short, short, especially at the crown.  What I've noticed by looking in the mirror at the back of my hair is my two-inch scar on the crown of my head! 

My hair is sticking up like a rooster tail. Now most beauticians may think I have a cowlick on the crown of my head, but it's not a cowlick.  It is a long white zipper scar.   Here's how the story went:

 
When I was around six years old my mom and dad were adding an addition to their little house. In the side yard was a pile of grey concrete blocks, neatly stacked.  Back then my sister, my younger brother, and I would take our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches outside to eat. . .a picnic, if you will.

 
On this particular day the three of us children were given explicit directions from my mother, "Do NOT climb on the concrete blocks!" 

So I didn't. 

I sat on the sole concrete block resting on the ground at the bottom of the tower of concrete blocks because like most children of the 50's, I feared the switch.

 
But not my three year old brother or twin sister. 

Oh, no. 

They climbed straight to the top of the concret block tower and proceeded to eat their PB&J sandwiches.

Stupid me! 

I should have climbed up the blocks as well because the next thing I knew a concrete block bounced off my head and skidded down my little brown back. (Back in the 50's children didn't have to wear shirts, especially if you lived in the boondocks).

 
I let out a scream and Mama came running.  Of course she could see the scrape marks on my back as she tilted me over and then . . .and then she noticed blood dripping out of my head.

We had no car back then so Mama bundled us up, tied a kerchief over my head and we walked a mile to the city bus stop.  The whole while I was crying.  My twin was crying, and my little brother was crying.  We must have been a sight on that city bus.

Now you do realize no one had the right to really cry except me; and I highly suspect the reason my siblings were crying was the fear of the switch because they knew I would tell Mama that they climbed to the top of the concrete block tower.

 
And then an odd thing happened.  My mama gave my brother and sister a dime to stop crying and causing people to stare. 

Now tell me.  Does that sound right to you?  Why didn't I get a dime?

The rest is a blur.  I suppose I made it to the doctor with my head in a kerchief.  I suppose they stitched up my head, and I assume we rode the city bus back to the country.

But what I am definitely clear about is: I did the right thing by fearing the switch and now sixty-one years later, I have what appears to be a cow lick on the top of my crown and my hair just will not lay down!

 

 

Comments

[Joni]

Great story! I wish I had the chance to grow up in the 50's. My parents tell me it was so much more, but yet they had so much less..

[Jackie]

Thanks for sharing your memories. I love strolling down memory lane to the 'good ole days'. Now you need to share a pic of your new style!

[Sherry]

Hey, I don't remember a dime. When you got back from the doctor's office (in a cab), Mom brought us back an OK tablet and a big pencil. You brought back some stitches, plus you got to take a cab ride.