Safety First

I've created a monster in my last post; progress on it is slow but steady. Here's something new to distract you from my shame. Read, enjoy; I've got a turd to go polish.

A good many years ago - I was seven or eight at the time - I hovered over the toaster eagerly anticipating my toaster strudel.

I was a short kid, scarcely taller than the counter this toaster had stood on. So, to be ''hovering'' over it meant I had to climb up onto the counter and get on all fours to look down into the glowing, red hot innards of the busy toaster. On a cold November morning, the warming sensation of radiant, strudel-scented heat gleaming onto my face was as close to sex as any seven year old should ever get. The anticipation of the strudel's climactic emergence and the following application of icing doodles proved to great to bear. The sudden clamor of strudel bursting out of the toaster not only removed me from my warm-faced daze but out right shattered my blissful moment -- as well as one of my top incisors.

The scare of the popping toaster had sent my head reeling, at a high velocity, up and away from the offending source and directly into a looming cupboard's ridged corner. Reflex kicked in once more sending me face first into the toaster. I now faced the inescapable pain of an exposed nerve.

The sharp cry I let loose was likely heard by everyone for miles; dogs in neighboring states winced.

I had a sudden appreciation for the use of mouth guards in contact sports but rejected mother's insistence that I wear a mouth guard at all times henceforth. Mother's reasoning was that, ''The world is a hazardous place and our daily preparations must reflect that fact appropriately.''

''Then where is your mouth guard?'' I asked.

''I'm no klutz,'' was her only repartee.

I questioned her logic but did as I was told. Who was I to question a protective mother diligently trying to raise children in a world where soft, rubbery playgrounds bedded with bits of recycled tires were quickly replacing their former wood and steel counterparts? Nowadays everyone can unanimously agree, save for a few of the more obstinate old timers, that the government mandate for the installation of seat belts and airbags in automobiles has saved and improved the quality of many lives. The move for me to wear my mouth piece was surely a decree of the same monumental insight.

It's always better to be safe than sorry, right?

One day, the following summer, I was wondering about the yard looking for something, anything to do. I was bored, and boredom is, by far, the single most perilous thing any child could encounter. I ended up settling on a game of ''Don't get hit in the face with a walnut,'' which my older brother and his friends had recently conceived. The rules were simple: Throw walnuts at other combatants; try not to get hit in the face.

Every child in America has played this game in one form of another.

Baseball-sized walnuts sailed through the air. Some, freshly fallen, were rough, green, unyielding balls that hit the walnut trees we hid behind with a hard thwack while others, rotten and black, swimming with maggots, would strike their target with an innocuous splatter. After taking one of the latter to the center of my chest I stopped to brush off the wriggling mass of pulp and maggot, completely oblivious to an incoming walnut of the other variety. Crack, the walnut fell squarely on the top of my head, knocking me out for a brief moment -- long enough for me to fall to my back and half swallow my mouth guard. It was fortunate that my brother was able to pull the obstruction from my throat before I suffocated. My world turned a red hue from the blood flowing through my hair and into my eyes. Mother cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide and gave me a helmet to wear which was good since peroxide had stripped away patches of my hair's color.

By the time summer was over and the school year started, I was required each morning to don my mouth guard, a helmet, knee and elbow pads, steel-toed boots, water wings, and a neck brace all before heading downstairs to mother who would then wrap me in a layer of bubble wrap. ''Have a good day, Precious,'' Mother would say before kissing my forehead and sending me waddling out the door.

One day at school, it was particularly hot. The suffocating amount of gear I had on combined with the intense heat, caused me to collapse of a heat stroke during lunch.

Following my abrupt crash to the floor, I was quickly stripped of my protective gear. I was then placed in front of a fan in the air-conditioned nurse's office and given a cold compress to hold to my neck while I waited for the paramedics.

The nurse asked me what I was doing with all that junk on anyway.

''To stay safe,'' I explained wearily.

She laughed and pointed out how well it was working. ''Sometimes you just have to take things in stride,'' she explained. ''If you spend so much time worrying about the bad, you'll never have the chance to take in all the good.'' ''Besides,'' she said, pulling up her sleeve, revealing a thick and presumably secret scar, ''Wounds heal and the scars remind us not to repeat our mistakes.''

I briefly reflected on whether she meant that the scar itself was her mistake or that what had inspired it was. Both, I decided. Like her, I ,too, was burned twice -- once by doing stupid kid stuff and again when instead of learning from my mistakes, I tried to hide from them.

Mother arrived before the paramedics and signed an Against Medical Advice form to avoid a trip to the hospital and enable her to take me home ''where it was safe.''

''Tomorrow, I'll order you a Cooling Vest to wear,'' Mom said on the ride home.

''No,'' I argued, ''In fact, all I'm wearing tomorrow is a tee-shirt and shorts''

''But, but, but, you won't be safe,'' she stammered, her gaze widening. ''You'll get hurt!''

''Shit happens,'' I rejoined, relaying what the nurse had taught me. I was paraphrasing of course.