Exercise: Scars

The Severed Ear

This is the story of how I almost lost my left ear.

Back when the world was young and the sun shone a little more brightly, my father taught me how to ride a bicycle. The early November chill mornings made it hard for my father to get out of bed. Stiff from years on the choker lines, he relished his Saturday mornings. But, as
he had promised, today we were to learn to ride a bicycle –without
training wheels. I was five, maybe six years old, up at the crack of
dawn. Any other Saturday, I would have spent my time in front of the
television, but today, I had a date with destiny.

The sun shone brightly, and the wind was down. Odd, that, for a place
such as Hood River. Usually the wind blew around the clock, and the
harder the better, as far as I was concerned: I loved the wind, still
do. Mount Adams gleamed to the north, a new dusting of snow on his
shoulders.

I wheeled out the red, white, and blue Schwin I had received for my
previous birthday in April. Only half a year later, if you can believe
it, I was on my way to riding without training wheels. I wheeled that
bike out to the top of the driveway, to where the road was flat. Our
driveway dove toward the garage a hundred feet away. To the right was
a parking area.

But this isn’t a story about how I came to be a cyclist, is it? It is
about that scar behind my ear.

The bicycle had beautiful up swooping handle bars and a white banana seat that was so comfortable to sit upon. I had practiced for the last
week, keeping the training wheels off the ground. Carefully, I would
ride around the parking area or down the sidewalk, listening hard for
the wheels not touching. I would even try to stay level when turning
corners, but of course, this was impossible. Invariably, even waiting
until the last minute to turn, those little wheels would scrape, a
horrible sound to a six year old concentrating so hard on not to make
any sound at all.

We walked the bicycle to the top of the drive. My father pulled a
wrench from his pocket and, looking me in the eye asked, “Are you sure that you are ready?” His eye twinkled just a bit, but I didn’t understand.

I nodded my head a gulped –does anyone really gulp when they are
nervous like that? I think that only people in movies do such things.

He applied the wrench to the bolts attaching the training wheels to
the bike. He held the handle that supported the rear of the seat as I
mounted. I had fear, no doubt, but there was also exileration. Today I
would change forever and I could feel it.

The oaks in the neighbor’s yard stared down at us. My father counted to three and gave me a push. Off I was, wobbly at first, but then
straighter and with more confidence. I rode down the street for maybe half a block, listened for cars, checked a drive that was much flatter than ours and made a perfect turn, heading back to where my father
stood.

I rode along smoothly, but now, I rode against traffic. A car came
around the corner and headed for me. My father did not know that it
was there, and could not fathom the fear in my eyes. I looked at him.
I looked at the driveway, much too steep. I looked at the sidewalk,
tricky to mount. I chose poorly: right in the middle of the two.

In our yard grew many bushes and trees. Ours was quite a large lot,
one of the older homes in the neighborhood. The grassy area was flat,
but there had to be a slop up to the street. On that slope grew what
my father called pfitzers. Junipers, I have heard them called, low
growing bushes of the evergreen variety. For me, they made a soft
landing place. I suppose that if the bicycle had cared, I would have
made a soft landing place for it.

I don’t know how it happened, but when I came up out of the pfitzers, I was screaming and holding my ear.

“My ear is going to fall off!”

My father was skeptical, as I suppose that I would be. Why should a
bicycle accident cause trauma to an ear?

Well, it did.

“Let me look,” he said. Reluctantly, I let him. “Hmm. It is cut back
there.” Tears trickled from my eyes as I silently swore that I would
never again ride a bicycle.

My mother, incredulous also at my predicament, hustled us into the
car and directed it toward the doctor’s office. Seven stitches and a
net that went over my whole head to hold my ear on later, I found
myself at home eating a bowl of ice cream and sipping water while
watching late Saturday morning cartoons.

I mastered the training wheel-less bicycle, within week, while wearing a Miami Dolphins stocking cap to cover the shame of my hairnet and severed ear.