I think I was four. I know that I wasn’t in school yet and that my older brother by two years was. I was at home playing on the sidewalk outside the back door. The door propped open so that the fresh warm air of late spring could creep into the house to replace the stuffiness of winter. The lawn was comprised of patches of dirt and areas of brown and new green grass. Occasionally I inhaled the scent of decay, some areas of the yard still recovering from being buried all winter. Yes, spring comes late in Upper Michigan.

At the edge of the yard my dad’s recently completed project, a new clothesline, stood. Practical dad had used the trunks of white cedar for the poles. He had removed the branches, leaving stubby knobs as reminders of where a branch once held. The barkless trunks exhaled the subtle fragrance of cedar. Mom would be happy be able to hang clothes outside to dry rather than in the basement.

As I played with my older brother’s wood blocks, I could hear the ring of the school’s bell and the screams and happiness of kids on the playground. I remember the square wood blocks. They had raised edges and letters that were painted in red, blue, and yellow. I was stacking the blocks, creatively making different arrangements and then toppling them. My younger brother must have been present. I member a pair of white Converse covered feet in the periphery of my vision.

The stacking game became dull and I looked for something new. My dad must have left some of his tools inside the back door as somehow a hammer found its way into my hand.
I tested the functionality of the hammer. I raised it and brought the heavy metal head down. There was a solid thud and a short puff of cement dust. It felt good. An idea popped into my head. I grabbed one of my brother’s blocks, aimed the hammer and let it strike. I missed. I tried again. This time I caught an edge and the block scooted away. I got frustrated, but am persistent and wasn’t about to give up. I focused. The hammer went up and came down. It hit the hollow block. The block shattered, flattened. I smiled. I felt a sense of exhilaration and accomplishment.

My younger brother knowingly stated. “You’re gonna be in trouble.”

Defiantly I replied, “No I’m not. I didn’t do notin.” I took another block. Missed. Focused. Sweet, sweet success. Eventually a third block and then a forth lay shattered before me.

Before I could victimize another block, I heard my older brother’s voice, “What are you doin? Those are mine!”

Survival instincts kicked in. I didn’t look. I bolted towards the edge of the yard. Foolishly, I raced towards the cedar clothesline pole. As I reached the pole, hands grabbed the back of my head, pulled it back and thrust it forward. My forehead met the edge of a knot. Skin split. Blood – lots of it. I started to wail.

My mother came out from the kitchen. She bellowed, “What are you boys doing now?”

I cried. “Nothin, I didn’t do nothin.”

The next thing I remember is standing on the backseat of a neighbor’s car with a once white towel tightly clasped to my forehead. Years later I learned that my mother had had to scramble to find a car to drive to the doctor’s office. As we pulled out of the yard, I felt the car shutter and jolt, gears grinding. My mother turned, “Don’t you get any blood on the seats!” I held the bath towel more securely to my forehead.

At the doctor’s, I ran to the door, opened it. The nurse at the counter looked up. She saw my mother behind me and came rushing out to catch her before she hit the floor. The nurse led my mom to a chair, made her sit and then put her head between her knees. I got scared. “What’s wrong with mom?” I wanted to show her that I was ok. I started running back and forth across the waiting room, towel clutched to my head saying, “Thee mom. I’m ok. Thee?” The handful of waiting patients took it all in.

In the doctor’s office I sat on the edge of a table. The heels of my shoes bounced off the sides. My mom and a nurse talked quietly. The doctor came in, looked under the towel. “Yep, need some stitches. Five should do it.”

My feet swung faster. My brain pondered, “Stitches? What are stitches?”

The doctor pulled out a needle and some thread. He looked at me. “This might hurt a little.” He asked me some questions. I answered. I felt a pulling sensation in my forehead. “Ok all done.”


“Yes. All done” The doctor turned to talk to my mom. I hopped down from the table and walked out into the waiting room. I walked up to my brothers, stated proudly, “Thee. I got five thithes.” I couldn’t wait for dad to get home.


3 thoughts on “‘Thithes’

  1. martininwhangarei says:

    Hi Keith, Thanks for the essay, its a nice piece. Looking forward to your next entry.

  2. keithwrites1 says:

    Thanks for the comment. Sharing my writing is outside my comfort zone, but I understand it is something I need to do. I want to become a better writer.

  3. Mom says:

    So that is why your brother split you forehead open – I did now know what the fight was about until now! Mom

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