My very first memory is of near-death. It was just before my third birthday, and I was sick with croup. My fever spiked, and my windpipe started to swell shut. My mother told me I was starting to turn blue. My dad scooped me up and ran down the street to the hospital. In those days, they didn't have inhalation therapy like today, so an emergency tracheotomy was performed and I was installed in a plastic oxygen tent over my crib.
I vaguely remember my dad holding me and running. I remember a bright light in my eyes, and a doctor's face covered in a green mask. I remember him coming close to my face with something shiny in his hand and then I don't remember anything else.
My dad saved my life.
I couldn't speak unless I placed my finger over the hole in my throat, and I wouldn't touch it. I spent my third birthday in the hospital, and my mother and the nurses brought me a birthday cake with no candles, because of the oxygen. I received twenty-eight Little Golden books and my mother taught me to read before I was finally released.
They said the scar would fade but it never did.
I remember once visiting my grandparents, and nagged to put on my shoes. I loved running around barefoot; but not when a three-inch sliver of wood became lodged in the bottom of my little foot. My Grandpa Rudy held me in the emergency room while they poured iodine over it. Man, it hurt like a bugger and I was pretty vocal about my opinion. They wrapped my foot up in a big white bandage that looked like a cast, and Grandpa carried me out to the car.
I have memories of the Pacific Ocean. I remember the giant redwoods. I still dream about them.
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My clearest memories are when we lived in Visalia, an agricultural small town in the middle of the San Joaquin valley. We lived across the street from Mooney's Park. My dad worked there building a Wild West town for the little amusement park. I loved going over there and riding the roller coaster; since my dad worked there we could ride as many times as we wanted. A small train ran around a small track right through the Wild West town; it was really cool.
When my dad worked there he somehow found time to build a little house for me and my sister. My sister wasn't really all that interested, but I loved it. It had a porch, windows, a sun roof, and built asymmetrically, like a Tim Burton creation probably before he was even born. I was heartbroken when my father sold it.
It was definitely farm country. An irrigation ditch ran behind our house, and of course, water and dirt were just irresistible to kids. My mother used to yell at us all the time, telling us we were going to catch polio or some other disgusting disease playing in that muck. Even the kiddie pool under the huge walnut tree in the front yard wasn't enough to keep us from the lure of the ick.
We had a dog named Inky; I had a bicycle I could ride to school or down the road to my friend Carla's house where we would play I Spy and Man From U.N.C.L.E; we had a baby cow in one half of the barn. The other half of the barn was my dad's studio/workshop. It was where he made the magic happen. Not only was he an accomplished carpenter, he was a sign painter and an artist. He loved to work in oils, and the aroma of oil paint, linseed oil, and paint thinner brings me back to that studio as if I were standing in it right now.
That was my life. And it was good. Happy.
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