There's a fine line between trauma and tragedy. We walk--or swim--that line, whether we realize it or not, most of our lives. My husband likes to call it "dodging bullets." I'm glad you and your daughter dodged a big one, that day.
My memories of boyhood tell me that the surest guarantee that I and my fellow's would do something foolish and dangerous was a prudential admonition from the wiser adults.
With sufficiently strong preventive counsel, there was little that we the little people wouldn't attempt.
We routinely swam out past the last barrel. When adults were away or distracted we discovered hidden war souvenirs, as as we took turns being Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne, I nearly severed young Robin of Locksley's thumb with a quick slash of my sword. We would enter burned out buildings and jump across the remaining roof joints, saved from disaster only by being to light to collapse them any further.
I used to love staying with my cousins in the coal mining country of southwestern PA. There we would enter flooded, abandoned shafts (an activity in which I persisted as an adult, but in old iron mines). One of the most foolish and perilous of our games was to enter the abandoned coke ovens, which had a well deserved reputation for sudden collapse. Luckily here I am responding to you as a survivor and a stodgy promulgator of rules and warnings to another generation of young immortals.
Thank you, Carol. It's true, I wish we could see the invisible tally board where it would show how many times in our life we dodged a bullet. It would probably astound us!
There's a fine line between trauma and tragedy. We walk--or swim--that line, whether we realize it or not, most of our lives. My husband likes to call it "dodging bullets." I'm glad you and your daughter dodged a big one, that day.
That one day still can give me sweaty palms when I write or think or talk about it. I'm only happy that the bullet was dodged ...
My memories of boyhood tell me that the surest guarantee that I and my fellow's would do something foolish and dangerous was a prudential admonition from the wiser adults.
With sufficiently strong preventive counsel, there was little that we the little people wouldn't attempt.
We routinely swam out past the last barrel. When adults were away or distracted we discovered hidden war souvenirs, as as we took turns being Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne, I nearly severed young Robin of Locksley's thumb with a quick slash of my sword. We would enter burned out buildings and jump across the remaining roof joints, saved from disaster only by being to light to collapse them any further.
I used to love staying with my cousins in the coal mining country of southwestern PA. There we would enter flooded, abandoned shafts (an activity in which I persisted as an adult, but in old iron mines). One of the most foolish and perilous of our games was to enter the abandoned coke ovens, which had a well deserved reputation for sudden collapse. Luckily here I am responding to you as a survivor and a stodgy promulgator of rules and warnings to another generation of young immortals.
You certainly did occupy your time with daredevil pursuits! I'm glad you lived to tell me about them --thank you!
Thank you, Carol. It's true, I wish we could see the invisible tally board where it would show how many times in our life we dodged a bullet. It would probably astound us!