That day in 1942 was different for me. At least different in the way I remember myself. I did not play outdoors often. I wouldn’t remember this outdoor activity except that it is sealed in my memory by my scar. . . . Have a look at what was going on.
See the slightly tacky eight-year-old bouncing on a long plank, probably a 2 x 8, as it leans up against the bed of an old farm truck. It must not have been a school day; school days were marked by pretty dresses and clean faces. Definitely not a part of that day.
Bounce, bounce, bounce. My adult mind knows that with each bounce, the board scooted down and backward a few inches. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Unusual activity for me – I was more inclined to be in the house cutting paper dolls out of old catalogs. Up and down, with a rhythm a bit like swinging my legs in the tree swing. Bounce, bounce, bou . . . I’m sure my screams must have brought Momma running. The board had fallen off the truck and hit the inside of my left ankle. I don’t remember what she did, but we did not do doctors, we did prayer. That was likely the emergency method employed!
The thumb print size scar two inches above my ankle remains nearly three quarters of a century later. It must have been pretty bad and I know there had to be pain but that is not what I remember. What I remember is playing outside, daddy’s farm truck, momma’s rescue.
Psalm 30:5b, “weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”