Ban Sand Shovels

Forget about gun control, here is a good reason to ban sand shovels. Adding to my Guinness record for bodily damage, I am told (for reasons that will become obvious, my memory is a bit fuzzy) that when I was around 2-years-old I was playing out back in the sandbox with my yellow metal sand shovel and pail, and I was soon joined by my neighbor, Tommy, who was several years older than me and allegedly quite spoiled. Anyway, I apparently became intrigued by what was going on next door, and stepped out of the sandbox to get a better look. My foot got wedged between the fence and the sideboards causing me to lose my balance and fall backwards into the box. I was completely trapped and wasn't able to figure out a means of escape, and so I did what any kid that age would do in similar circumstances: I began to wail for my mommy. This evidently disturbed Tommy, and instead of helping me, he began to pummel my head with the shovel. I guess he thought that by inflicting great pain it would silence me. Unfortunately for both of us, the opposite occurred, and the more he struck me, the more intensely I wailed, and the more powerfully Tommy swung away. It wasn't long thereafter that blessedly I began to lose consciousness.  As it was, the back yard was quite large and my mother was in the far end of the house nursing my younger brother and couldn't hear my screams. Tommy's mother was in her house and didn't hear me either, but she happened to look out the kitchen window and noticed her son's arm repeatedly flailing, and so she came running to investigate and was able to stop the beating. Apparently, I was revived, my mother was alerted, and I was taken to our family doctor for treatment. As the doctor began to wipe the blood from my mangled head, he was understandably outraged and believed that something should be done about Tommy. I don't know if anything ever was done, but I eventually recovered as best as could be expected. Perhaps my head trauma explains, in part, why up until about the middle of grade school, my parents thought I was mentally retarded. Here is a picture of the sandbox.

 Here is the back yard with the sandbox in the distance beyond the swing set.:

Worse than zits

As if the yellow jaundice wasn't enough of an accomplish during my first week on earth, I decided that before my first two years were up I would set the Guinness record for the most sores in the most unusual places on my body. In addition to the normal scrapes and bruises, I accomplished my lofty goal with the help of chicken pox. According to my parents, I was covered from head to toe with blemishes, even in my ears and nose and mouth. Of course I had to scratch them, and to this day I have a scar over my right eyebrow to prove it. Yo...what was I thinking!?!

This is me with my older brother and sister (Ryan and Valrie) back when I had about as much hair as I do nowadays:

Yes…I invented the cheesy grin: 

Me on the front porch with my Mom, my older brother and sister, and my younger brother Dane (in the oven): 

Ill-fated Wanderlust

The second ill-fated experience of my life is described by my mother: "When he [Wade] was about a year old I would dress him in his little gray coveralls, tie a rope around his middle that had the other end tied to the clothes line, and sit him down on the grass so he could be out in the yard with the other children. I would check on him and bring him in when he needed to eat, nap, or have his diaper changed.  It was a fine arrangement until one day he had patiently untied the rope and crawled out front into the street and a neighbor brought him in. I was so grateful someone had seen and saved him." 

As you may see from some of the stories to come, I had a thing for getting away from the house and exploring the world. Here I am sitting in my coveralls on the front porch along with my older brother and sister, Ryan and Valrie. For some reason they don't seem happy with me--likely because they may have been made responsible for keeping me out of trouble...no small task that:

This is me once again walking out front into danger: 

My life began in a bubble

Once a week, usually on Sundays (I am catching up today), I plan to tell a "what was I thinking" true story from my past. My intent is to tell the stories chronologically so as to comprise a personal history. Here is the first: 

I began my interminable streak of ill-fated adventures nearly at birth, having been born several weeks premature (evidently, I couldn't wait to leave heaven and get on with the pratfalls on earth) and weighed in at a whopping 5lbs 6oz. And, unlike most babies, I didn't get to go home the next day, but spent my first week or so in a hospital incubator convalescing from yellow jaundice. Yo…what was I thinking!?! Here I am sleeping off the ordeal on the floor at home. 

Here I am in training to become a couch potato. 

This could be the first time I asked myself, "Yo…what was I thinking!?!" (It looks as if I am about to slide backwards off the bed as if my grip on the spread will be of any help.)

.