Today, I told my favorite story to my senior high school students. Again. The story of when I had my sledding accident. I know how to tell it just so - just so they know just how macho I am.
I was in seventh grade and had been missing the big hill at the elementary school when my friend, Melanie, gave me a call and asked me to go sledding. She wanted to go down the hill by our home, the hill with all the trees. I agreed and met her and her older sister at the top of the hill with the biggest clearing. I followed Melanie down a few times and decided that this hill was even better than the elementary hill.
I remember looking down at the hill trying to find the best path, and I hopped onto my sled at full speed. Wahoo! Kerplunk! I hit a pole and flew off the sled, landing face first in the snow with my right arm and my left arm by my side, and my right leg planted safely in the snow. But, my right leg? It landed on the top of the pole I had hit.
Yes it hurt, but Melanie's sister told me to shake it off and keep sledding. I got up, brushed myself off, and zoomed down the hill a few more times.
Finally, when I looked down, I saw one red spot on my snowpants the size of a golf ball. I rolled up my snow pants and saw that my jeans were sopping with blood. I rolled up my jeans and saw the damaged jagged opening on my leg.
I showed my leg to Melanie's sister and she transported me on my sled to the arena which was the closest building in sight and called my mom. I should have gotten stitches that day.
For some reason, this story is their favorite. They ask me to tell it over and over. And so I do.