First Blood

Whenever my family gets together on holidays and other events we love to eat, play cards, and talk about growing up. One of the main topics of conversation is stitches and scars. Since I’ve had over four hundred and eighty stitches in by body (only four as a result of surgery and never more that eighteen in a single cut) over the course of my life I’m usually the topic of choice for laughs and aggravation.
First Blood
It all started in the winter of 1963, when I was four years old. My Dad had built what was called a “Flying Ginny” in our backyard. This was made by combining a seesaw with a merry-go-round and since I was the baby at the time so my seat was in the center (I got to ride all the time!).
Snow had fallen in south Arkansas that year and we had almost a foot of the stuff on the ground. Mom and Dad had all of us kids and our dog Lucky outside playing in the snow. The older kids were playing on the “Flying Ginny” and I was running over to take my seat in the middle. Lucky, being a big and playful mutt was having a good time himself and ran up behind me in the snow and knocked me down.
My forehead struck a seat on the “Flying Ginny.” I remember the snow turning red and my parents, especially Mom, trying to stop the bleeding and get me to the emergency room at the local hospital. It took two trips that day.
The first trip resulted in a couple of butterfly stitches and I even got a sucker and bubblegum from the nurse. When we got back home from the doctor’s office I went back outside to play and Lucky knocked me down a second time causing a return trip to the doctor and four stitches. I did get more gum and candy.