Bruised

Suburban Chicago, June 1962. Here's another view of my face after I took the fall on the driveway.

Steps

I grew up in a "split-level" house. Upon walking through the front door, one entered a small foyer. There was a narrow landing beyond the foyer. To the left of the landing was the living room. To its right were two sets of stairs. One set led down to the Rec Room, and the other set led up to the bedroom area.

When my Parents originally bought the house, the stairs leading to the top floor were wooden. One afternoon, I "fell" up the stairs and nearly bit through my tongue. My Mom panicked. She held a porcelain coffee cup beneath my lower lip to catch the stream of blood that flowed from my mouth. I howled when I saw the red liquid. I still have two deep scars on my tongue that remained after that injury.

Soon after this incident, my Parents arranged to have carpet put down on those stairs.

Suburban Chicago, June 1961. To the left is the Rec Room, and my Parents' master bedroom door is visible at the top of the landing.

Unleashed

European parents who raised curious, busy children in urban environments saw nothing wrong with using leashes to control their kids.

My Mom occasionally led me on a harness and leash because I was such a turbo child. My family sometimes joked that I had a "motor in the tail."

Mom and Dad even installed a fence in the backyard so that I would not run away.

Once, I took off so fast that I tripped and fell, face first, on our concrete driveway. I skidded several feet. When I stood up, I had a bruised face.

Suburban Chicago, June 1962. The damage to my face doesn't seem to bother me. What am I doing here? Auditioning for an early version of the "Daisy ad?"