One Giant Pain In the Nose

OK. So this was originally wirtten to be performed aloud. But it's an amusing little tale I wanted to share. Enjoy.

   MoTheThird 

  I'm going to tell you all a story. Not a story full of insight. Not the story of any type of tortured youth. I doubt that this story will leave a mark on you in any meaningful way. Except, I hope it makes you laugh. You can feel sorry for me if you want. That's out of my control and entirely in your hands. I hope you will take this story in the tone of the speaker, who, now having some distance between him and the actual event, now finds the whole affair quite funny. So here's the story about why little kids need their parents.

   Imagine with me, if you will, Morris. A Morris much shorter than the one writing this post. A Morris for whom sink and counter tops are relatively new terrain. A Morris limited in the number of rides available to him at amusement parks. A Morris slight of build, and low of pain tolerance. A Morris of about, say, somewhere between the sixth and eighth year of his life. Years surrounded by discovery and newness of life. Every day was a new adventure, with lessons to learn. It was a beautiful time of life when planning for the future meant, asking mom to buy dessert for the whole week. A carefree time, when fart was a bad word. And race struggles meant trying to run faster than all the other kids. But afterward, we all played kickball anyway...so it didn't matter. It was a great time of ignorant bliss. Back to the story...

  Summertime and the livin' is easy. Let's just say I am seven years old, 'cause I think that it could be right. I'm out and I'm playin', 'cause that's just what kids do (and I was good at being a kid). We were running around, playing with balls (which didn't sound dirty at 7), playing with plastic guns, chasing each other with sticks. We're playing every game we could think of: kickball, baseball, tag, football, etc. If there's a lull we just make up a new game. Frisbeeball (Don't ask me how it worked. We just had a lot of energy), and stranger games than that. 

  In the midst of all this fun gaming, we must reflect on the other certainty of youth...injury. Yes, even at the immortal age of seven, there was the occasional close encounter of the firm kind. Diving from a bicycle to have a fight with the payment was a popular one. And thought the asphalt rarely lost, it was the object of many a tussle. Running into stationary objects was, sadly, not uncommon. Scrapes in the tree, and kick balls to the face, are just some of the ways we imagined to injure ourselves. But the original injury of this day, remains a mystery. 

   Enter young Morris. I am the recent victim of a small, but keenly painful wound inside of my nose. Bounding into the hospital he calls home, I seek, the care of the attending physician (aka mom), the mender of all manner of wound. After the requisite screaming for mom. The I was notified that the attending would not be available for some time. Unavailable?!? This was unacceptable. I need to go back out and play. How hard can patching a wound be?

   Let's just note, at seven, I  didn't know much. One of the things I did know was that hydrogen peroxide was good for cuts. I run to the upstairs bathroom, hop up and kneel on the sink. Fling wide the cabinet, extracting the miracle solution. Sliding down from the sink, I fill a cap full of peroxide as I have seen my mother do, many times before. I am faced with a new problem. I have a cut in my nose in need of tending, and a liquid that refuses to travel up. But, desperate times call for desperate measures. I thus began to lean back, one hand out for balance, the other grasping the cure to my pain. Leaning into a precarious angle, I drain the contents of the cap into my nose. At this point I come to believe that my nose is melting off of my face. I am in pure agony. And, agony doesn't mix well with contortion and balance. A lesson I learned quickly as I surrendered my balance and came crashing to the ground in a heap.

All in all, that ranked among the top painful experiences of my life. Up there with, trying to leap a pillar, getting hit in the face with a bat, and having scarlet fever.

    I said all that, to say this: Every once in a while, do something stupid. When the pain goes away, you'll get a good laugh.

It's a neighborly day in this beauty wood.

Today I pulled out the cookies I'd made earlier this week, and I found something totally strange...Neighbors. I met Billy, Minnie, and Walter because I didn't eat my cookies in my apartment. Actually, I didn't eat them at all. On this beautiful sun filled afternoon, the sharing of the cookies was less a choice and more the firm hand of guidance.

Not that any great epiphanies came during this hour long foray across the street. A little perspective was gained. Our side of the street is a small collection of apartments, which do just that. They keep us apart. Not physically, at any time one could knock on the neighbor's door and ask them to lend out a cup of sugar. But having lived in a third set now, I understand that the "apart" in apartment is mind and soul.

My roommate called yesterday to tell me to call the "rental people," because water was coming down between the walls and originating from above us. A broken pipe or overflowing drain may have caused the problem, but walking up the stairs and talking to the neighbors may have solved it. It will never be known.

Go bake some cookies, and don't eat them. Instead, meet someone from Chicago, who just moved here with his fiance. And someone who moved here 45 years ago.
...And they'll have things they'll want to talk about. You will too.