My Scarred Life -- i

When Cain murdered Abel, God planted a mark on his forehead to signify that he had sinned grievously. The mark was to stay with him for the rest of his born days so everyone would identify Cain as, well, undesirable.

I don't remember doing anything quite so horrendous as murder before my second birthday. I may have wet a few diapers and kept Mom and Dad from sleeping, but nothing quite so out of the ordinary for any run-of-the-mill kid. Regardless, I, too have borne a marking that will stay with me for however long death may tarry.

In January, 1950, soon after Christmas, our family made a trip to Grandpa's house to celebrate the holiday season. As usual, Grandma made sure she had all the seasonal goodies prepared, the new toys set out in plain view for the grandkids. Among them was a colorful, new pin-ball machine, not a big one found in pool halls, but a smaller game designed to set on the floor. As far as I can remember, this particular model looked much like any other toy pin-ball machine, except by some genius of manufacturing, the toy-makers had neglected to lay glass over the playing surface, leaving the metal pegs exposed.

That pin-ball game dominated our attention for the afternoon, and only when we ran to the holiday table did the marbles rest in the tray at the bottom of the machine.

Let me make this clear: I always liked my sister. She was three years older than

me, and she was a girl, but she never bothered me in any ways other than any usual older sister might.

After supper she went back to the living room floor and resumed play on the delightful little game, placing it next to the Christmas tree so as to get a little additional light, then bent over on all fours in front, creating an inviting little horse to any year-old cowboy. I hopped on, decided to make a game of her.

She didn’t consent to that species of horseplay. She wriggled and shook at first, kind of half-heartedly, then told me to get off. Truth be told, my weight was not enough—I was not yet two--to take her attention off the marbles zigzagging down through those posts. When she decided she had enough, she lifted her feet like a rodeo bronc, and catapulted me success­fully off her back, and so began my life as a marked man.

I flew off and made a perfect one point landing in the field of posts set into the wonderful Christmas toy. Those nasty little posts did their thing, or, so I am told, because when I came up for air my face looked like Antietam.

In moments, I guess, both parents and grandparents were at the sight of the accident, bemoaning my bloody face, and saying rather nasty things about "such a dangerous toy.” I was almost-two, so I started bawling, especially when Mom told me I was going to be all right after a visit to the doctor.

I’m told I had quite a few gashes over my face, several of which required stiches, but one was nasty, running the up my face on the left side. Hence, me and Cain.

Unfortunately, the doctor failed to sew the wound shut quite as tightly as he should have, so the scar, even as it healed, remained, well, pronounced.

Scars turn white, right? Well, not this one. For reasons known only to God, mine had real fortitude, stayed so proud and red that it totally dominated first impressions.

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Note: I have in my possession my mother's entire collection of Jimmy Schaap pics. Very few shots feature the left side of my face. Both Mom and thoughtful school photographers must have made sure that whopper was unseen. In this one--maybe first grade?--it's there at least. Trust me, it was. 

Tomorrow: more of a scarred life.