In 1952, my family returned from England to the United States, where I was eager to begin fourth grade in the small town of Bridgeville, Delaware (population 3,500). My father was now out of the military and had returned to his hometown to help my grandfather on the family farm. It was Labor Day, and the roadside market that they ran was particularly busy, so I was amusing myself by playing on the tractor that was standing idle in the field. Before I knew what happened, I had slid from the smooth surface of the tractor’s body where I was relaxing on my stomach and slammed hard onto the ground, breaking my arm in two places.
Being a very religious child (even though I had not seen Jesus under the drape at school in England!), I quickly ran up to the house, fell on my knees, and in a wild, tearful prayer asked God to help me! There was no immediate evidence of such assistance, but I marched bravely to the market and fearfully told my parents about my mishap. They were not too pleased to have to take me to the hospital that day, the busiest of the year. Looking back now, I know it was not a hard-hearted response but a fearful one. We were counting on the income from the sale of our produce.
The moments of my life surged like a pulse, and my memories of them shape me still. The idea of having to walk into a new school with a cast on my arm kept me awake and in tears the night before. Any sense of joy in going to school was quickly overshadowed by a deep insecurity and sadness because of my accident. Would I be laughed at or teased? I was a year younger and smaller than my peers, having begun school in England at the age of four, and that made me even more vulnerable. So I began fourth grade with a cast on my right arm, forcing me to write with my left. This seemed to place me in a very precarious academic position. I not only had to adjust to a very different school culture than the one I had just left but also spoke with a peculiar English accent, and my handwriting looked like I had subnormal intelligence. My teacher, Miss Scott, had certain very proper ways of running a classroom, and never having encountered a child who had been schooled in England before, was not quite sure what to do with me. In the end, I was givenan F in handwriting, and was sent off to the fifth grade in the hopes I could do better.
In addition to these humbling experiences, my father and mother were going through the postwar stresses thatmany families had in those days, so life at home became quite noisy and argumentative. I withdrew more and more into a private world that I could order, and I brought my younger brother, Jackie, along with me. On one memorable occasion, there was a fierce argument going on in the kitchen, then a terrific bang. The pressure cooker had exploded and pieces of macaroni hung everywhere. Jackie and I looked on in wonder asMom and Dad trembled at their good fortune that the lid, which had made a great hole in the ceiling, had not fallen on their heads!
Being a very religious child (even though I had not seen Jesus under the drape at school in England!), I quickly ran up to the house, fell on my knees, and in a wild, tearful prayer asked God to help me! There was no immediate evidence of such assistance, but I marched bravely to the market and fearfully told my parents about my mishap. They were not too pleased to have to take me to the hospital that day, the busiest of the year. Looking back now, I know it was not a hard-hearted response but a fearful one. We were counting on the income from the sale of our produce.
The moments of my life surged like a pulse, and my memories of them shape me still. The idea of having to walk into a new school with a cast on my arm kept me awake and in tears the night before. Any sense of joy in going to school was quickly overshadowed by a deep insecurity and sadness because of my accident. Would I be laughed at or teased? I was a year younger and smaller than my peers, having begun school in England at the age of four, and that made me even more vulnerable. So I began fourth grade with a cast on my right arm, forcing me to write with my left. This seemed to place me in a very precarious academic position. I not only had to adjust to a very different school culture than the one I had just left but also spoke with a peculiar English accent, and my handwriting looked like I had subnormal intelligence. My teacher, Miss Scott, had certain very proper ways of running a classroom, and never having encountered a child who had been schooled in England before, was not quite sure what to do with me. In the end, I was givenan F in handwriting, and was sent off to the fifth grade in the hopes I could do better.
In addition to these humbling experiences, my father and mother were going through the postwar stresses thatmany families had in those days, so life at home became quite noisy and argumentative. I withdrew more and more into a private world that I could order, and I brought my younger brother, Jackie, along with me. On one memorable occasion, there was a fierce argument going on in the kitchen, then a terrific bang. The pressure cooker had exploded and pieces of macaroni hung everywhere. Jackie and I looked on in wonder asMom and Dad trembled at their good fortune that the lid, which had made a great hole in the ceiling, had not fallen on their heads!
