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collective
experience story#: 1 author: keith dumbleton occupation: cabinetmaker residence: chicago, il year of story: 1981 e-mail: [email protected] |
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The
day I turned ten, I stopped eating lasagna. All the kids on the block were over for my birthday dinner. Outside it was a warm Florida summer evening, a bit drizzly. My mother and grandmother had set up a couple of folding tables in the living room, and we had lasagna and punch. Cake was forthcoming. As was one final gift, that my father and grandfather had gone to the store to pick up. I was very excited about that gift. My sister and I always got a couple of small gifts for our birthdays, and one larger one. My parents caused me much anguish that year by delaying the arrival of the larger gift until after the birthday dinner. So when it came time for seconds, and my gift wasn¹t there yet, I decided to abandon my fellow diners and wait out on the driveway, in the rain. In the strip of grass between our driveway and the neighbor¹s yard my father had parked his tool trailer. It was a little red trailer with a fiberglass top, about six feet wide, and four feet high. I climbed up on top, thinking I could see farther down the street. Little did I imagine that once I climbed up, it would no longer be a tool trailer, but a pirate¹s vessel surging through the ocean. A storm raged about me and I found it necessary to fight my way free of the bloodthirsty scoundrels who had lured me on board in an attempt to kidnap me for a king¹s ransom. The deck was slippery with rain and hampered my fighting, but I was surefooted and brave. When it was clear that I could not prevail against them, I knew that my only choice was to save myself, and I marched to the edge of the ship. With a fearsome cry of defiance, I dove into the maw of the deep green sea. But when my shoulder hit the green it did not penetrate and I did not escape. There was a sharp crack and a flash of white light, and I lay dazed, sprawling in the wet grass. I stared up at the sky for a few moments, the fuzzy drizzle occasionally forcing me to blink. Then I stood up and wandered back into the house, where I collapsed into a bamboo couch with fat, stuffed cushions and called across to my mother, who had just begun serving my cake. I spent the next few hours with my mother at the hospital, and when I returned home that night, I had a tightly strapped brace holding my broken collarbone in position. My grandmother got up out of bed to see how I was, and I asked her if I could have a piece of cake. She said she was sorry, but the cake was all gone. She¹d had too many of my friends to feed and hadn¹t been able to keep track of the whole thing. When there still wasn¹t any cake the next day, I realized she wasn¹t joking. The lost cake combined with the broken bone created a superstitious lesson learned in my mind. I haven¹t eaten a single serving of lasagna since that day. |
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food dissapointment childhood lesson-learned loss injury
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