Memories (part five) - the yard

The yard as I remember had a huge front lawn with large trees and also some shrubs or bushes growing on the front corner of the lot. On the north side of the home was a sloping to steep hill leading up to the Deseret Gym on the next corner.

Among my play toys was a very small cart which normally held some small wooden blocks. This cart was soon repurposed and hauled partway up the hill (not too far - just to the back property line) where I would then climb into the small cart and carelessly careen down the sidewalk to the corner. Of course there was no mechanism to steer or stop the contraption - but what great fun was had until Mom and Dad discovered my reckless speed demon tendencies and put a stop to it.

On the south side of the home was a driveway and a garage (more like a very large shed) at the back end of the driveway. There on one side of the garage was a fenced sandbox play area where many happy summer hours were spent while my Mom (and Dad when he wasn’t away at work) were working in the yard. They were the caretakers/ managers of the apartment building - and so were responsible for maintaining the yard, and helping other residents as needed. In return they received a substantial discount in rent each month - which enabled them to save extra money towards their goals.

One day - when I was about two years old or so - I was happily playing in the sandbox. My brother had been duly instructed by my parents to not leave the gate open, and thereby enable me to make an escape. It was his desire to play with certain items in the sandbox, and rather than hassle with the gate multiple times to bring these things inside - his brilliant idea was to instead throw them over the fence, and enter the gate once. One of the proposed play items was a soda pop bottle, which ended up hitting me square on the forehead.

I don’t personally remember this incident (most likely the traumatic experience was firmly blocked from my mind). But I was informed that my screams could be heard blocks away (and Salt Lake City blocks are huge). My parents upon hearing me rushed to my aid - only to be confronted by a blood covered shrieking child (head wounds can bleed quite profusely you know).

Mom immediately gathered me into her arms, and I was immediately rushed to Primary Children’s Hospital where I obtained nine stitches in my small forehead. In their hurry and concern for my well being - my brother was summarily left standing in the driveway watching his parents drive away. But before you think too badly of my parents, it wasn’t as neglectful an act as it seems. Dad’s oldest half-sister lived in the same building - and she was there (attracted by my screams) to take care of my brother until our return from the hospital.

I still have a small scar on my forehead - which may be one reason why I have always thought my forehead to be ugly, and always wear bangs to cover that particular body feature.