Its wheels hit a rut, throwing the haywagon off balance. The over-full load of hay, pitchforks and I were catapaulted off the wagon. I fell faster that the rest of the load, and was beating the hay to the ground. My right arm went forward toward the approaching earth, but it couldn't hold both me and the ton of hay to follow. When the last of the prickly hay was lifted off of me, my arm was hanging there, useless.

 

Then a clamor began. "Oh my God!" screamed Frieda. "The arm is broke!"

 

Sure enough, the arm began to puff up at the elbow, the hand dangling at a crazy angle. 

 

And so began the slow, very noisy march down the trail from the clearing to the house. Frieda was in the lead, sobbing and wailing, apologizing to everyonewithin twenty miles – especially Mr. Leland – for what had happened. I was trudging along in the middle, and John silently brought up the rear. 

 

At eight years old, in shock, I still had not quite understood what was bringing all of this ruckus. The arm didn't work, but it didn't hurt, either. Everything else seemed to be okay, except Frieda.

 

gradually, the longer I walked the more alarmed I became. I was convinced something was seriously wrong, but I wasn't sure what. The closer we got to the house, the higher the pitch and the greater the volume of Frieda's vocalizing.

 

John, as usual, was saying nothing, but seemed as calm and reassuring as ever, steadily following me to the house.

 

Once in the kitchen, I found the nearest chair and sat down, the arm dangling beside me. A crowd was gathering around Frieds: Gran, Aunt Margot, Aunt Jean, cousins of all sizes. Frieda's wail grew with the crowd. 

 

Mother, just coming downstairs from her nap to see what was going on, had <arilyn with her.

 

"What's going on?' I heard her call. Amidst Frieda's stream of hysterical words her ears had picked out my name. She decided I had been killed. She promptly fainted in the hall.

 

The crowd left Frieda and me. Now they all gathered around Mother. Meanwhile Marilyn began a wild, three-yeayr-old scamper up and down the hall, stark naked.

 

Mother's insides had now turned to jelly and I watched her disappear, down the hall, being led by Frieda ti the bathroom. Finally Mother was back in charge. She found me sitting on my chair in the corner, bundled me into the car, and we began the fifteen mile drive into town to Dr. Torphy's office for a splint.