A year had passed since my mother’s ordeal delivering her oversized baby boy. The black and blue lumps on my head had long since formed into the perfectly formed skull I’ve been blessed with ever since. (That’s my story and I’m sticking with it!)

We were still living in the tiny house on 30th Street. Dad was actively renting the trailer he had purchased to build the tiny house and he was more than happy to stop and chat with everyone who asked about it. In fact, with no credit card records in 1946, he had to chat and get enough evidence so the folks renting the trailer would bring it back.

I don’t remember it but my older sister Vicky does and my mom sure did. Apparently Dad was responsible for watching Vicky and I when he got busy conversing with a neighbor. Or renter. It must have been a very important chat. 

There was an irrigation ditch running through the property, small enough for any adult to step over and any three year old to jump across. And, apparently, just the right size for a one year old to fall into without having the room to roll over and get his face out of the water. 

My sister noticed my laying in the ditch and struggling. Dad ignored Vicky’s frantic cries. So she reached down and pulled me out. 

Thanks, Sis …

There is no record of the reaction when my mother asked about her dripping wet muddy boy but the marriage lasted another thirty-one years.