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I am fairly sure that the context for this story was either in the fall of 1966 or the spring of 1967. Either way, I was in third grade. We were living at our house just north of Grandpa, and Keith was in his senior year of high school.
Keith had this lower-powered motorcycle, like a Honda 70 or something. He liked to drive it around the farm, just like I liked to do the same with bikes. On the farm, there were always opportunities to try out new things, new ideas. Now, I have no idea what the plan was, but Keith suggested doing something either by the apple orchard or further toward the river. I think he convinced Ken to go with him, and then he asked me. So off we went with Keith driving, Ken behind him, and me hanging on to Ken. I don't know what they were wearing, but I was in typical shorts, a t-shirt, and barefoot. We start heading down the lane toward the orchard, first going to the top of the little noll and then descending the sandy little hill to the bridge made of planks over the creek. As a biker, I knew that one needed to carefully control the bike going downhill in that sand, since it was easy for the sand to "turn you".
As we were about halfway down the hill toward the bridge over the creek, the front wheel got caught by the sand, we twisted a little, and so did I and my legs (since there were no pegs for my feet to rest on). All of a sudden, I felt this great pain, and I yelped out. Keith stopped, and after noticing my ankle was dripping a lot of blood, he picked me up and started carrying me home. Fortunately, we were only about a quarter of a mile from home. Also, fortunately, he was in good shape as an athlete in gymnastics. I am sure I was crying since the spokes had made a serious slice through the back of my heel, about an inch from the base of the foot. I don't know what Ken did, but perhaps he ran on ahead to alert Mom, since I vaguely recall her coming out as we neared.
Keith carried me into the house, and then he set me on the bathroom counter so that Mom could wash my foot and assess it. Blood had dripped across the kitchen floor all the way to the bathroom, but it was likely good to keep the wound clean. She washed it, tried to get it to stop bleeding, and then likely put on iodine before wrapping it up. I think, but I am not certain, that Mom and Keith then took me to the Emergency Room at the hospital. Keith likely came to help carry me. Once seen, I was given about 8 stitches, wrapped up well, and then given some crutches.
I am sure it was expensive to go to the ER, but as a kid, I didn't think of such things. I thought it was cool that I would be using crutches, since that would make me different. I would need help carrying things at home and at school. That glamour didn't take too long to wear off. Eventually, my third-grade teacher got tired of me needing other students to help me at the lunchroom, and soon the principal scolded me for still using the crutches. It wasn't my choice since I still felt pain walking without them. I don't know what protocol there was, if any, on when to decide to stop using them, but the scolding was enough to help me to learn to walk sooner without the crutches.
Ironically, some years after I met Marcia, I learned that she had a similar tale. Her older brother, David, was the same age as Keith at the same school, though they perhaps didn't hang out together. When Marcia was about 5, David gave her a ride on the back of his bicycle, and Marcia's heel got caught in the spokes of the bike, resulting in the need for many stitches. Her sisters recall that she was then pulled around in a little red wagon while she recovered.
Published on 2026-06-06.
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