It wasn’t Valentine’s Day but I remember my first date and the kiss that came with it like it was yesterday. The year was 1956 or maybe 1957. We were in seventh or eighth grade. His name was Martin Wiescoff. I’m pretty sure that he went on to attend the University of Chicago or some other school and that he turned out to be a lawyer or doctor. We weren’t old enough to drive so his mom or dad drove to pick me up and then took us to the movie or party, can’t remember which, th
We were headed for Texas. Daughter Teresa lost the draw so, she was accompanying her dad, “Buck” and me, her mother, from Illinois to Grand Prairie, Texas where our son, Guy and his family lived. The van was fully loaded with the walker, bags for medication and a c-pap, also lots of pillows and a bed railing. Buck had to sit in the front passenger side to accommodate the electric wheel chair. Nothing could be stored behind the chair because that is where the ramp was located.
Scars are part of growing up. One cannot be my age and not have had accidents. I have had my share, that’s for sure. Scars from childhood to adulthood, some scars show and some are hidden inside. They all hurt. My scars are a diary of my life. I will take a moment to preface this by saying that until adulthood, I never had a doctor attend my wounds. “Back in the day”, someone applied a washcloth and then, if there was blood, we were given a bandage. Scar number one is located