Collar Bones

I’ve broken my collarbones 7 times.   

The collar bone is the curvelinear bone connecting the shoulder to the breast plate at the neck.  It’s a generally useless bone, unless its broken.   When broken, you can’t lift your arm.  At all.   Front, back or side.  Huge pain shoots up your neck straight to your head which gives one the impression your head just got shot off.     

I’ve had my collarbone broken at a park…and had to walk home about a mile.  I’m cringing in reflection.  

I’ve had my collarbone broken playing tackle football … in the snow … at a Catholic school.  The kid who did it is still in purgatory...may he find peace.

Apparently, when I was around 2 years-old, I broke my collarbone playing on one of those toy horses that are suspended from a frame by springs so you can "ride" the horse.  Well, to augment my riding skills, my older brother, Mike, who was probably 4 at the time pushed down the tail aggressively.  I went flying head first into the ground - broke my collarbone.  Allegedly, I did not fuss or cry which left the break undiscovered for about a week's time.  

That is me, a mixture of bravery and stupidity - and a large helping of older siblings.

Next: Mike

Dogs

We’ve always had dogs.  

My entire life, there was at least one dog in it…Magoo, Useless, Nameless, Sir Edwin Poop-a-lot, Luke.  My father named them, with more gusto than common sense.  Magoo probably ran into walls, although I'm not sure.  Sir Edwin Poop-a-lot I do know had a very weak constitution – and for about 6 months had to be put on a cottage cheese diet.  I can’t make this stuff up, I can only be the scribe.

About Magoo, all I really know is the story my mom has said 1,249 times about how we used to live on a farm in Beaver Dam, WI (extra credit for determining what the town was "known for") and Magoo was a life saver.   

We lived off of County Road M, I think.  Well, mom sent us outside to play and telling the dog to keep an eye on my sister (~5 years old), my brother (~4 years old) and me (~2 years old.)  As we wander close to the road, Magoo heroically shephards us back toward the house by physically putting herself between us and harms way.  The story usually ends with an amazed look on mom’s face, a shake of the head and an “oh, that Magoo.”   

What a dog, right?  Keeping the family safe although its just a dumb animal.    

Honestly, I know we were pretty broke growing up, but we could not scrap together enough coin for a babysitter?  The dog you named because it ran into walls is babysitting your kids.  We could have been happily playing in the stinking barn or chicken coop or even the rabbit cage, rather than under the glaucomic eye of the dog.

Next: Collar Bones