This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The nineth instalment is here.
What's red and white and red and white rolling down a hill?
Me. When I was 10. In red gym shorts and a white tee shirt.
My family used to go camping. We loved camping. And by that, I mean, we went camping, slept 6 people in a tent, it rained, food burned, and we all got a hundred bug bites. After one horrible and fateful trip, my mother vetoed any further camping trips. But, that's a story for another day.
When I was ten, we went to Saskatchewan Landing to go camping with my cousin's family. Saskatchewan Landing is the only place in the province that has anything resembling big hills. In that there is any rise at all.
My brother, myself and my cousin, Keith were roaming the hills one day being silly. We started to go back towards our parents and headed back down the hill. I did what every kid does when going down a hill. I started to walk. That changed into a trot. Which changed into a run. And finally, it changed into a downward spiral I had no control over.
I tripped. Of course I tripped. I can't walk across an empty room without falling. But, this time, I tripped while I was running out of control down a hill. Head over heels I tumbled down the entire hill. I hit numerous rocks and landed in a cactus pile.
I screamed bloody murder. And then I realized I was bleeding and screamed even more. I had landed head first on a very sharp rock. I was bleeding. I WAS DYING. I screamed at my cousin who came down the hill quickly without falling and helped me get back to my parents who were not far away.
With a beach towel pressed to my head, we made our way to the nearest hospital. I got stitches in my head, antibiotics for my cuts, and a lot of attention. It wasn't until I got back that I realized my trauma had also been a great source of entertainment for my family. It was my brother and cousin who came up with the riddle that plagued me for years.