once, when I was eight

When I was a child, I lived in a house on a very busy road.  The house sat up on a hill, but it had a very flat back yard and a swing set.  I spent many hours playing on that swing set when it was warm out.  In fact, it was one of my favorite things to do.

I didn't merely swing, you see.  As a child, I had a very active imagination and would pretend that the swing set was an RV.  That's right, an RV.  Didn't you know that yachts on wheels are glamorous?  No?  Well, they are.

So, I would be riding along in my RV, traveling across the country with my imaginary friends.  My pretend name was Elizabeth.  I typically had a slew of characters in my elaborate pretend plots.  We would explore deep caverns, hike grand trails, and have all sorts of amazing adventures.  Then, night would fall and we would go to sleep in the RV.  ahem.  on the swingset.

One bright spring day I was playing in the backyard.  I remember racing to cross the support beams, stepping from swing to teeter-totter to the double swing, which served as my private bedroom on wheels.  As I was exiting the boudoir, my leg caught on the end of a screw.  The metal used to be covered by a black rubber cap, which served to prevent injuries I suppose.  However, most of those caps had long fallen off.  I had had the swing set for several years at this point.

At any rate, I caught my thigh on this screw.  And, the screw bit me.  It sunk its nasty teeth into my young flesh and wouldn't let go.  I continued my downward trek, hopping from the swing to the new grass.  But, rather than landing and rushing off on another adventure, I fell.  Grasping my leg, I hollered out.  My stepfather, who was cleaning out the flower beds for spring, looked over and thought I was goofing off.  I was, after all, quite imaginative. 

Looking down, I can still remember seeing thick white clumps of fatty-looking stuff laying on the grass.  Somehow, I hobbled to the back door, let myself inside, and saw my mother talking to my granny.  Speaking into the phone she said, "Gotta go, Lindsey's cut herself wide open."  And then I was clutching a wet rag to my thigh and riding down the road to urgent care.

I met my current physician while laying on the examining table of his doctor's office.  His nurse gave me a shot, saying "You're going to feel a big stick," before he put five stitches in my leg.  I had to wear a bandage for weeks after that, and then a big band aid for even longer.  I was a celebrity in my classroom.

For the longest time, I had a bright pink scar slashing across my thigh.  The scar is gone now, mostly, but I can still feel it if I run my hand over my leg in just the right way.  There's also very little feeling along that line, right where the skin thickens and is the tiniest bit raised.  In just a few weeks, the twentieth anniversary of my accident will pass.  I feel lucky that that is pretty much the worse thing that has ever happened to me, and it wasn't all that bad.

This post was inspired by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.  The prompt that I chose was about a scar.  I can't find the wording now, but you can look for it here:  (So, the prompt wasn't for this week after all.  I don't think Mama Kat will mind if I link up anyway, given that she inspired this post with that nifty inspiration widget she has over there.  Looking for something to write about?  Ask your Mama.)

Photo Credits:
Swing by terren in Virginia on Flickr
Campground: Class C RV by Bill Ward's Brickpile on Flickr
Surgeon Mr Ali Mearza checking notes by Focus Laser Vision on Flickr