Listening

As I was driving today through the neighborhood, I saw the top of a rusted sun faded 
red swing set behind a weathered wooden fence.  The swing set, missing the swings and long forgotten by children, transported my mind back fifty-five years when I hung from the top swing set bar in my own backyard on our brand new blue swing set, at our brand new house, in a brand new subdivision south of Salt Lake City.  My parents had planted the front and back yards in grass seed, roped off the area with string and little wooden posts, and watched and watered, and watered and watched it until it sprouted and grew thick and green.  My father would regularly mow the grass with a recently purchased red push lawnmower. 

Our new house, in Midvale, Utah, was white brick and my parents had planted a 
weeping willow tree out in the front yard.  The backyard was open to a field of weeds behind us, and an empty lot to the east of our home, while we had neighbors to the west of us.  There were no fences; we had not lived there long enough to need or build fences. Our brand new bluish swing set had two single swings hanging by silver chains, a tandem swing seat good for my sister and our dolls to swing with us, and a face-to-face swing with seats that we called the teeter-totter and we would scream sing, “Teeter-totter, bread and water, wash my face in dirty water.”  My little sister and I would swing so hard that one at a time the A-frame legs would lift off the ground to the rhythm of our swinging.  We would pump our little legs so long and so hard that summer. 

I climbed to the top of the swing set, grabbed onto the top support bar, and crossed my small hands repeatedly until I was in the middle of the piece of equipment, between the two lowered swings.  And there I hung, as a six year old, proud of my accomplishment but not knowing what to do next.
  
“Do you want a push?” yelled the neighbor girl, whose name now eludes me.
 
“No.”  I replied panicked, as I was just barely hanging on, and the ground beneath me 
was too far to jump.  I could feel the new blisters developing, and my arms weakening at my elbows.  Not listening, she gave me a big shove and I went flying and landed on my back.  I cried and cried.  Funny, I don’t remember the sharpness of the pain, but I remember crying all the tears and feeling sick to my stomach.  The following morning my mother drove me to the doctor’s office located in a white brick medical plaza, where he examined me.  It was the first time I remember going to a doctor’s office.  I was scared. 

“Lift your arm,” I did as instructed.  “Reach your arm forward,” again I did as he 
instructed.  “Push against my hand,” and again I did.  I moved my arm and hand every way he asked me to move it, but he thought he should X-ray it anyway.  Sure enough, I had a hairline fracture below my shoulder and above my elbow, an injury most often seen in baseball players he informed my mother.  I was put in a light pink lamb and cloud sling and was sent home to recover and to be careful.  It was the prettiest sling I had ever seen; the powder blues and light pinks with lambs dancing through the clouds.
 
Going to school with the sling on my right arm proved difficult and embarrassing, as 
there was so much attention from the other students and the teacher.  I always tried to avoid attention from everyone and this new event brought me unwillingly into the spotlight.  I also could not write, which proved to make my first grade handwriting even worse.  I struggled to be left-handed, which came naturally to my little sister and my mother.   

A week or two later, my father had just cut a large round circle in the front yard grass to put in a new flowerbed.  The infamous flowerbed where mom would eventually plant flowers, where the cocker spaniel Cindy would dig up the flowers, and the fight that ensued between my parents when the police were called.  My sister and I were walking on the edge of the grass and the freshly dug flowerbed hole, balancing round and round in circles.  My dad hollered at me to stop so I would not fall.  I did not listen, just as the neighbor had not listened to me and pushed me.  I lost my balance, fell on my injured arm in the sling, and after another trip to the doctor’s office and an X-ray, was informed the hairline fracture was now a clean break.  I remember the sharp break pain I felt with this fall, and more tears.  I remember well, the soft white stocking the doctor put on first, the white wet casting plaster applied to my arm, and the wet chalk smell.  It definitely was not as pretty as the sling and it stunk, even after it dried.
 
Once again, everyone at school wanted to know what happened, as I had traded the 
sling with a white cast.  With the cast, I could not fudge my handwriting like I did with the sling and so my handwriting was even worse than before.  At the time, the attention from the other students and teachers was worse than my broken arm.  It seemed to my little self that a broken arm was easy, but my overwhelming shyness was more painful and more inconvenient.  It was May and luckily, school was soon out, only to be replaced with hot June and July in a cast that was itchy and sweaty.  Many times my mother helped me, using her long knitting needles to scratch the incessant itches my fingers could not reach. 

The final trip to the white medical plaza was to have the cast removed.  Oh, the cast 
stunk even more once the nurse removed it.  My poor arm did not look like it belonged to me as it lay on the cold silver medical table.  It was thin, wrinkled, covered in unruly hair, and dry dead skin flakes.  My very own limb grossed me out and I was disgusted it was attached to me, but I was happy I could be right handed again.

For many childhood years, I was mad at the neighbor for not listening to me and 
pushing me, causing me to fall.  Yet today, as I pass the old swing set and the memory is resurrected to my mind, I have to chuckle as I realize I did not listen to my dad either; a poignant realization.  How I would love to listen to my father today.  I long for his advice and his voice.  I long for his stories and his counsel.  Most of all, I miss his kindness, and even though I did not listen to him, fell, and broke my arm, never once did he say, I told you so.

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About the Author:
Janet Lott -- I am a mother of three children, fifteen grandchildren, and one great granddaughter. I am a researcher, historian, genealogist, and writer. I moved to Rock Springs four years ago, and love living here in this historic community where my ancestors lived and worked. Writing gives my research an organized format for me to share the great and wonderful information I have found hidden away in courthouse basements, county depositories, and boxes at university libraries. I love researching, writing, traveling, reading, crafting, and spending time with my family.