The Sunday Memory Drawer - When A Summer Falls Apart

I generally don't like roller coasters.   But, then again, aren't all our lives really roller coasters themselves?  The exhilarating highs.  The swooping lows.  Who hasn't been there?

I got a taste of this very early on when I was ten years old.  I wrote here just two days ago about the euphoria of July 24.  My first ever trip to a baseball game as a genuine fan.  As I walked out of soggy Shea Stadium, I thought that a summer couldn't get better than this.

I was on the top of the roller coaster.  I couldn't see the drop in front of me. About a week later.

In what would become a lifelong career of having one of two legs compromised, I wound up with what every kid fears in the middle of the summer.  The inability to go out and play with your friends.

I will never forget the pain.  I was "up the block" and playing with my buddies.   Probably something inane with a ball being thrown at something or somebody. I was in front of my childhood best friend Leo's house.  Back then and probably still now, the sidewalk in front of your home had a metal plate where heating oil got loaded for the winter.  I tripped on the metal plate and suddenly my body and my ankle were going in two different directions.

Ouch.  Shut the front door!  Or whatever would be the equivalent saying for a ten-year-old in extreme pain.  

Here comes the roller coaster down that first big drop.

I hobbled home and barely got into the first floor kitchen of my grandmother. My ankle was already the size of a volley ball.  Of course, with no one else home at the time, she was the sole medical advice at hand.   And, naturally, Grandma's remedy for every ailment was the same.

"I'll go get my witch hazel."

Ah, yes, Dickinson's Witch Hazel.   I just looked the stuff up and the company is still around.  It's supposed to be for skin care, but my grandmother used it for everything.  If you had anything wrong, witch hazel would be applied.  I think it also was used to take paint off the garage door.

The witch hazel, in this case, did zero.

We waited for my mom to come home from work.  

"Your ankle is sprained."

Duh.

Of course, I was already well past the age of my kiddie physician, Dr. Fiegoli.  I had already graduated to the adult practice of one Dr. Weisberg, who had the same remedy for whatever it was that was ailing you.   And it wasn't witch hazel.

"Apply an Ace bandage and take aspirin."

Dr. Weisberg would have tried to treat President Kennedy with the same tools if he had been in the emergency room of Parkland Hospital.

So, with all this expert medical expertise, I was doomed.   And stuck in the house.   I remember wistfully sitting in my grandmother's living room.  In her rocking chair with my aching right foot elevated.  Every move either made me cry out in anguish.  Or made the ice pack drop to the floor in a spot where I could not reach it.  

The floor fan blew breezes at me but I was not happy.  The rocking chair was right beside Grandma's big living room window.   And I could see all my friends scampering from here to there.   Ding-a-ling-a-ling.  Oh, great, they're all running for the Good Humor truck.

It was the longest two weeks of my life to date.  My glorious entry into Shea Stadium was now just a faded memory.

At last, my ankle was deemed okay.  I could actually step on it.  And my family had probably run out of ice packs.   I was destined to make my return to the neighborhood for the rest of what was now August.

I remember heading through Grandma's kitchen for the back door.   And, suddenly, it happened.

Ping.

Uh oh, here comes another big drop.

At the time, my mouth was full of braces.  I looked like the front of a Buick Skylark.  And one of those metal rods which was anchored in the back of my mouth had gotten loose.  As a result, a metal wire was now lodged in the inside wall of my cheek.

Ouch.  What the French toast?  Or whatever would be the equivalent saying for a ten-year-old in extreme pain.  

"You can't go outside and play with that!"

Duh.

Of course, the call to my orthodontist, Dr. Arthur Ashe Not The Tennis Player (that's how he actually billed himself), was unsuccessful.

"Dr. Ashe is on vacation and won't return to the office until September..."

The date was immaterial.   Summer had crashed around me.

We had to wait for my dad to come home for the resolution.

"Come out to the garage with me."

It was there with a small pair of pliers that my father inserted into my mouth and cut the errant brace.  The pain was gone, but my teeth for the next two weeks looked like the braces had been put on by a guy wearing an eye patch.   I could now walk again but I looked ridiculous.

Before I knew it, school was back in session.   And I had just that night of July 24 as my one cool summer memory.

Every roller coaster ride does eventually end. But, as we all learn over time, the next rise and drop is always just around the bend.

Dinner last night:  Hot dog at Citi Field.