truck drawing

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.”


About oneta hayes

ABOUT ME Hello. To various folks I am Neat’nee, Mom, Grandma Neta, Gramma, Aunt Neta, Aunt Noni, Aunt Neno, and Aunt Neto (lots of varieties from little nieces and nephews). To some I’m more like “Didn’t you used to be my teacher?” or “Don’t I know you from someplace?” To you, perhaps, I am a Fellow Blogger. Not “fellow” like a male or a guy, but “fellow” like a companion or an adventurer. I would choose to be Grandma Blogger, and have you pull up a chair, my website before you, while I tell you of some days of yore. I have experienced life much differently than most of you. It was and is a good life. I hope to share nuggets of appreciation for those who have gone before me and those who come after me. By necessity you are among those who come after me and I will tell you of those who came before. Once upon a time in a little house on a prairie - oops, change that lest I commit plagiarism - and change that “house on the prairie” to “dugout on the prairie.” So my story begins...
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22 Responses to A SCAR, A MEMORY

  1. calensariel says:

    That is a lovely memory. We don’t often remember the physical kinds of pain of scrapes and bumps. The mind is a wonderful thing. Not emotional trauma is a whole other critter…

    • oneta hayes says:

      I am so thankful I did not have emotional abuse to deal with. I guess that is one reason I like to point out the advantage I feel I had in a secure Christian family. I would not argue that there are not secure families who are not Christian, but even those I think are based on Christian principles – honesty, love, integrity, responsibility among others. The time to plan one’s home is before the children come.

  2. mandibelle16 says:

    Beautiful story Oneta. I’m sure it was painful, but I’m happy you don’t remember that part. That it’s a scar that has become a good memmory.

    • oneta hayes says:

      Thank you, Rashmi. I have so much good to remember. Sometimes when I write these kinds of things, I wonder if anyone else cares. Thanks for reading and commenting. It seems someone else cares.

      • oneta hayes says:

        One more thing, if someone reads this who has not read Rashmi’s “Meeting My Ex” today, let me urge you to go read. It is great.

      • mandibelle16 says:

        What does Rashmi mean Oneta? Yes, I care 🙂 I read many blogs when I can.

        • oneta hayes says:

          Mandebelle,, Rashmi is another blogger who had responded to this blog. Beats me how my answer to her is under your comment and my response to you is no where in sight! You would enjoy knowing her, so I can hope for playing a role in you getting acquainted. Maybe I just misread. Anyway, Mandebelle, thanks for for responding to my mix up. Rashmi’s blog is mind and manners matter so I probably misread. I see her in the likes up top. Guess that’s how I goofed.

  3. Faye says:

    Beautiful and encouraging story Oneta. From our childhood it is good that the pains of injury like this one must have been are not as vivid as the prayers and the love. Thank you.

    • oneta hayes says:

      I wish I had asked my mom about this after I grew into adulthood. I don’t ever remember talking to her about it. It’s too late now. Isn’t that a sad statement? It’s too late now.
      Thanks for reading and commenting, Faye.

  4. luckyjc007 says:

    It’s wonderful to have this kind of memory about an accident and hurting, yet, realize that your mother came to your rescue. I’m sure her concern and love got you through the worst part of it.

    • oneta hayes says:

      It is heartbreaking that every child does not have that kind of security I’m sure it must have hurt but I don’t remember anything about the after effects. Just the scar. Thanks for the comment.

  5. Thankfully the mind has a way of numbing physical pain over time, if not, most women would not keep having children after the first time. Warm memories.

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  7. shoreacres says:

    I loved this. I still carry two scars: one from childhood, and one from my teen years that involved waterskiiing. The childhood scar is a reminder of my first track meet, when I fell at the very beginning of the race onto the cinder track. I’m not sure most people even know what cinders are today, but I’d be happy to explain while showing them the two tiny bits still embedded in my knee!

    • oneta hayes says:

      You sent me on a search for cinders. Looks like it would make a mighty hurt for falling on! Who treated your wound? You refer to this as your first track meet so it must not have discouraged you too much. This is another subject you could present on your blog. Or is it already archived? I’m full of questions, aren’t I?

      • shoreacres says:

        Who treated my wound? I did. I spit on it. Then, when I got home, we put some iodine on it. End of story. Well, except for a couple of other track meets — but that wasn’t my thing. I started playing clarinet, instead.

        • oneta hayes says:

          Funny! Your spit was sufficient to burn out the chips, huh? I had forgotten the miracle of iodine. I think mercurochrome was the lesser of the two evils. Track meet to clarinet, umm. No small change in one’s direction. However, no more of a change than that which has brought you to boat varnishing.

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