Once-upon-a-time, when I was much younger, and quite a bit more fool-hardy and foolish, I enjoyed snow. I loved to get all bundled up in my warmest clothes to go outside to cavort in the white stuff. I loved making "snow angels." I loved making snowmen, with lumps of coal for buttons, eyes, and mouths...and carrots for the noses. I loved snow forts, and the snowball battles which raged there abouts. I loved trailing my sled ("Rosebud") behind me as I made my way to a nearby snowy slope, or all the way to the forbidden terrain of Buckshot Hill on the Reid farm.
There came a time, however, when I was not quite ten years old that snow and ice became less playful and more threatening. I was in the fourth grade at the elementary school in North Lewisburg - the old brick building which used to sit on Maple Street. At the west side of the building there was a concrete ramp which provided a way into and out of Mrs. Morrow's first-grade room on the ground floor. The ramp was almost always covered in snow and ice during the wintertime. The outside entrance to the boys' restroom was nearby, so it was very easy to go from one spot to the other. Boys gathered on the ice-covered slope, then pulled themselves hand-over-hand to the top of the ramp using the thick, metal railing. At the summit, each boy pushed himself away from the brick wall, and went quickly down the ramp, slipping and sliding accompanied with all sorts of laughter and acrobatics. It was slippery, it was fast, and it was dangerous - just what boys enjoy!
I had made several trips up and down the slope, having just as much fun as everyone else. But on my last trip down the icy ramp, an older boy (I remember who it was, but won't embarrass him here) reached out toward me. He gave me an extra shove...one which sent me spiralling faster and awkwardly off balance. I fell on the hard ice and concrete with a terrific "thud" and CRACK! Pain ripped through my body, and tears quickly welled in my eyes. I knew that I was hurt; I just didn't realize how badly.
The old bell sounded the end to recess about that time. The gang of boys broke ranks and headed toward their various classrooms. I vividly remember the long, painful climb up the old metal fire escape back to my fourth grade classroom. For some reason, my right arm did not work correctly, so I held it tightly against my side. In the classroom, it was too difficult for me to remove my winter coat, so I merely sat down at my desk. I still held the arm tightly while silent tears coursed down my cheeks.
Mrs. Bertha Willis was our substitute teacher, temporarily replacing Mrs. Kline who had undergone some surgical procedure. She noticed my discomfort, and asked me what was wrong. I told her that I had fallen on the ice, and that my arm hurt. She suggested that I walk across the street and go to the Principal's office, which was located in the old high school building.
Unescorted, I went back down the metal fire escape, across the playground, past the "ocean wave," and across East Street. I entered the high school building, and went up the steps to the office. There I met Mr. Mendell E. Beattie, principal. He asked me what was wrong. I repeated my tale of falling down on the ice and hurting my arm. He stepped toward me, took a firm grasp on my arm, and quickly raised it up and down. The action surprised me, and hurt like hell. I let out a yelp just as he released my arm. More tears flowed, brought on by the sudden rush of pain.
"Well," he said, "if it hurts you that badly I'll have Coach Tackett take you home." He left the office and returned a few minutes later, Coach Tackett following along closely behind. The coach escorted me out of the building and onto the parking lot. He opened the door on the passenger side for me, went around to the driver's side, got in, and started up the car. He drove me north to the far end of East Street, made a left turn, and then a right turn, and continued just a short distance to my home at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets. He pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and knocked on the front door. My Mom opened the door just as I exited the passenger's side of the car.
As I stood at his side, Coach Tackett said "He's been hurt in a fall on the ice. Mr. Beattie thought it was best to bring him home."
Mom opened the door wider so I could enter the living room. "You might want to take him to the doctor," added Coach Tackett, as he returned to his car. He got in and drove away, back toward the school.
Mom asked me what had happened as she gently removed my coat. She let out a quick sigh as a shocked expression crossed her face. Sticking straight out of the shoulder of my flannel shirt was a bone, bloody red and ragged. She quickly tossed the coat back over my shoulder, grabbed her own coat and purse, and moved toward the door. She opened the back door of our old 1947 Chevrolet, and helped me sit on the back seat. She opened the front door, started up the car, put the gearshift into reverse, and backed up the slope from our driveway onto Sycamore Street. As fast as she thought prudent, she drove down the street toward "downtown."
A few minutes later, we arrived in front of Doctor John R. Polsley's office. She parked the car, and quickly extracted me from the back seat. We walked the short sidewalk from the street to the doctor's office building, a small cottage-like structure which stood adjacent to his family home. By this time, I was in horrific pain, tears and cries of distress all co mingled. I was rushed right in to see the good doctor.
Whatever happened next has been, thankfully, erased from my memory. Perhaps the pain was just too much; perhaps I fainted; perhaps he did something to ease my suffering. I only know that my next conscious thought was of sitting on his examination table, bare to the chest, as he fitted huge gauze pads under both of my armpits. He then wound what seemed to be yards and yards of "Ace" bandages in a figure-8 pattern over and under my shoulders. The loose ends were clamped into place with some sort of metal butterfly-shaped clasps. My arms were slightly askew from my body, held out in place by all of the padding. Mom was given some kind of pain reliever to administer to me as the day progressed, and told to return me for a followup a day or two hence. My shirt was loosely fitted over my shoulders, and just one or two buttons secured before my coat was likewise tossed over my shoulders. Mom and I made the trip back home.
It had been determined that I would not return to school for several weeks - six weeks as it eventually turned out - while my clavicle healed. I thus celebrated my 10th birthday, a few days after the accident, with one of the last birthday parties I was ever to experience. While many of my friends were there, I never saw most of my classmates at school for a full grading period. I did my homework assignments in the comfort of my home, and sent them back to school via my brother or one of my sisters. And, as I've sometimes pointed out to my own children, I still managed to get "straight A's" on my grade card during the fourth grade. (I have the card to prove it!)
I passed the time with homework, with lots of reading (especially comics and "Mad Magazine"), with lots of morning and afternoon television, and with getting out of just about every conceivable chore which might have been required of me. I was pampered and otherwise treated royally during my whole recovery period. Over the many weeks, I periodically returned to Doctor Polsley, who changed the bandages and followed my progress as the bone knitted.
Fifty-six winters have come and gone since I took that icy fall in February 1955. As time has passed, so too has my appreciation for snow and ice and cold. I never indulged in skiing, nor snowboarding. After years in the military, and those excruciatingly cold winters in Korea, Colorado, and upstate New York, I no longer have any desire to track about in the snow. I don't like cold weather; I don't like cold drafts; I don't like mounds of snow. So, happy, happy I will be when winter finally abandons us at my present home in Utah. Sunshine, oh blessed sunshine, I long for thee!
