I Missed the Charlie Brown Special

Scars. I have a couple. One came from stitches. Here's the story.

For a farm family, it was rare to be invited to a neighbor's on a week night, but that's just what happened in the Fall of 1970 when Pauly G. Walter and his wife Becky invited us to their place for the evening. They lived a mile or so north.

Mom put supper dishes away. Dad cleaned up and got dressed. And I sat on the kitchen floor watching a Charlie Brown special off our little black and white TV, the only television in the house. It sat upon the dryer, also in the kitchen. I don't know why I was sitting on the floor instead of the wooden chair directly behind me.

That choice changed the course of the evening.

scene of the incident, a year later  ~ chair was like this, but had a ragged edge

I liked going to PG's, for he made me laugh, but I doubted they'd let me watch the show, and there was no way Mom would have the nerve to ask because we'd be in their living room visiting. That's were their TV was.

My little girl mind believed that only the rich had a TV in the living room.
And an attached garage.
And a fireplace.
And more than one door to the house.

PG and Becky met two of my criteria, so they were only kind of rich.

I was whining around about missing the rest of the show and Mom said, "I know, honey. It's too bad this couldn't be on a different night."

I turned around to respond and my head hit the corner—the rough, ragged corner of that old wooden chair behind me. It cut deep into my skin right above my left eye.

I screamed, and Dad, no doubt, came running. They loaded me up into the car and drove to Huron, some 22 miles away.

me with my stitches 1970

I laid in the back seat with something pressed against my cut. Mom must have been back there with me, for I remember overhearing her conversation with Dad about stitches.

I thought that if I fell asleep, they wouldn't do anything. They couldn't give me stitches if I wasn't awake. So, I faked sleep. Funny how a child's mind works.

My plan failed. I got stitches. Maybe seven. I'm not sure. I don't know how I got through it because I don't remember being sedated.


Any traumatic injuries in your past? Any stitches to show for it? How about a time of disappointment for missing a television show?


Writer's Note: Thanks to Canadian mystery author Mahrie G. Reid for the inspiration for this post when she wrote about her scars. Click here for the story on her blog.