When I was seven...

When I was seven years old, my family was in a horrific traffic accident. It happened at the end of a wonderful Labor Day weekend spent visiting my Wisconsin cousins in Green Bay. Although all of us survived, the accident had a lasting effect.

What caused the accident? A semi-tractor trailer was out on the road, its driver conducting a test drive. He was doing 55mph or so. Our car was quite a distance in front of this behemoth, maybe as much as a mile.

We came to a spot in the two-lane road where traffic was at a standstill. My dad said, "We could be here awhile," and he then turned the ignition off.

Moments later the brand new shiny red truck slammed into us. At the last moment, the driver was able to jackknife his rig, so our car's trunk was hit at a slight angle. This saved our lives.

It wasn't his fault at all: the new truck's brakes did not work!

My mom was the only one of us who needed to be hospitalized. She had whiplash, and although she initially appeared fine, the EMTs said that by the next morning, she would not be feeling so great.

So by the end of the day, Mom was in the hospital at Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin. My aunt and uncle came and got my little sister and me. Their home in Oshkosh was to be our temporary home, at least until Mom was better.

During the first several weeks of this ordeal, my dad had arranged to take a leave of absence from his job. What a comfort it was to know that when I woke up in a strange bed, that he'd be out in my aunt's kitchen having breakfast. He took both us kids with him each day as he went to the hospital. He arranged for a volunteer lady to stay with us out in the parking lot. That way, when my dad had my mom brought to the window of her room, we could all wave to each other.

One day he even got the hospital to bend the rules and let us two kids visit my mom in person. I had already been told that she couldn't feel or move anything below her waist. But she seemed exactly as she had always been, cheerfully upbeat, and with her hair and makeup as perfect as they could be in a hospital setting.

"Anyway, sweetie, the doctors have this idea I am not going to walk again. You can't imagine how hard it is to get it through their thick heads that they don't know me or my family. The only question I have about my being able to walk is, 'How soon?'"

Over the next few days, I overheard conversations between my father and his sister. From what Dad said, the doctors had already given up on "knocking some sense into her stubborn head." Instead, they tried an end run around her by appealing to my dad.

My dad detailed the way the doctors were dealing with the "problem."

"Listen, sir, she's not going to walk. Not now, not ever. Of course we know it's difficult, but pretending she's okay and assigning her a therapist would be much crueler. You have to make her realize that the sooner she accepts reality the sooner she can learn to handle a wheelchair, and then the better off for her and your children."

My dad began laughing. "One of her nurses confided that Harriette told the doctors just where they could shove their wheelchair!" At this, I would have laughed too, except that I knew if I did laugh the conversation would be over, as it was one of those "adult conversations."

Shortly after this, the doctors caved. She began therapy.

But that was on the hospital front. Back in Oshkosh, things were heating up. My aunt had never liked my mom. Since we were her kids, we were now in for it. My mom had always tolerated my sister Karen being a picky eater. Aunt Vi was having none of it. As for me, I was a bookworm, especially if I had no friends to go outside and play with. Vi thought my reading so much was a bad habit.

In just a few days after the accident, both of us kids had longed to be back home in Chicago. Now with constant disapproval coming from this woman, Karen and I roughhoused and even fought. It was a rather good way to let off steam. At home we sometimes rolled on the floor and wrestled a bit. But now punches were thrown. I was older so Karen was allowed to pummel me harder than I pummeled her. She was having a hard time, so I let her act more wickedly than normal. But Vi thought we were the worst kids on earth.

"Your mother is in the hospital and she's been badly injured. She could die in her sleep! And she knows she'll never walk again. While you two act like animals!"

"Will our mom really die in her sleep?" my sister asked me once we had been put to bed early as punishment.

"No, she is not going to die. And from what I'm hearing, she is doing well with therapy. Slow but sure. She is the one person in the world who can beat back any problems God hands her. If she won't give up, neither can we."

The worst part of us kids going to bed early was missing seeing my dad after he came back from the hospital.

Shortly after this, my dad had to return to Chicago and his job. He made it clear that he'd be back on weekends. And we kids had to remember: if our mom said that she'd pull off something of a miracle, she would do just that.

As much of a confidant spin that my dad tried to use, I didn't have the heart to tell him that leaving us behind was not a good thing.

But two weeks later I'd had enough. On that weekend, I said, "Please take us home. It's too nuts being around our aunt."

He said "You know how much I'd love to do that, but I can't cook. Do you know something, Kiddo? I can't even boil an egg." He paused. "You kids need to have the kind of healthy meals that I just wouldn't be any good at fixing."

I said, "If we have to eat out of cans, that would be better than this." He gave a sigh, and just as he did that, Vi was in the hallway yelling at my sister for leaving her tiny socks and shoes lying around. Really yelling. Karen cried.

We were all back home the following Monday. Within a day, neighbors dropped off so many meat loaves, lasagnas, fried chicken & other dishes that we never had to open a single can. My mom returned home 3 weeks later. We celebrated how she was already starting to walk, although still sort of clumsily.

I mean, how could you not celebrate a miracle? However, as I got older, I reflected it was two miracles: overcoming a physical condition and also overcoming a team of smug MDs. I wish some of them had been around some 18 months later: she was walking so well, no one could have ever guessed that she had been semi-paralyzed.

Anyway, years later, when I became a parent, I had my son cooking by the time he was 7. He was taught simple things during the first few years, like how to boil an egg, or how to make chili out of a can — but spruced up with sour cream and chives.

It was only lately that I realized why I chose that particular age to have him learn to cook.