This morning MamaCharlie was telling me about a story she heard on TV about a kid who had chicken-pox on Halloween and wasn't able to go out trick-or-treating, a heart-breaking reality for a fifth-grader.  But that evening his classmates showed up in their costumes with a banner that said "Happy Halloween!" to try and cheer him up.  A sweet gesture for a friend?  Or just rubbing it in?  Sorry, that's just me twisted perspective kicking in.  A sweet story.

But every time I hear a story about kids missing trick-or-treating for one reason or another, I inevitably remember the Halloween I almost died.

It must have been 1953; I was six years old and my Mom and I were living with my Aunt Essie.  She lived in El Cajon, CA, in a little house on Millar Ave.  I have mentioned this house before;  when I crashed my slinky, it was the second lot north of Palm Avenue.  One street east was Richfield and about a block south Richfield curved to the east and ended at El Cajon Blvd (the main "drag" through town).  On the south corner of Richfield and El Cajon Blvd was a little family-run store.  It was long before there was a 7-11 on every corner but this little store had all the stuff you would find at a 7-11.  A little neighborhood store.  Want to know how different things were in 1953?  At age six I was allowed to walk down to the little store by myself and buy penny-candy...or on an errand with a note and some money to buy cigarettes or milk or something. 

That Halloween started off okay.  I didn't go to school that day, (stomach ache was my favorite dodge) but I knew that I would be better by evening and my Mom, Betty Lou, was a soft touch and would let me suit up and hit the streets.  In fact, a little before noon I started showing signs of a remarkable recovery. 

I had a couple of soda bottles I had been saving...they were as good as money in those days...and finally talked Betty Lou into allowing me to walk down to the little store, redeem my bottles and buy some candy.  The irony of my buying candy just a couple hours before the biggest candy give-away since Easter was lost on Essie;  she wanted some cigarettes and as long as I was going that way...

I had a pair of ratty slippers I loved.  I slipped out in my slippers despite being told to change into real shoes.  Now, 1953 El Cajon wasn't much different than other towns of the era in early suburbia.  Most roads in town were paved, and several had sidewalks; the maintenance of both was spotty.  So I was on Richfield just before the curve toward El Cajon Blvd when I encountered one of the sidewalk glitches.  It must have been a policy to take  better care of the sidewalks that were visible from the highway and not worry so much about the others.  The older patch of sidewalk that I was on was just a tad lower than the newer section.  My ratty little slipper had a floppy part where the toe had separated from the sole and that is the part that hit the slight rise, doubled under, and brought me down with such surprise that all I could do was throw my hands out.  I landed with my hands and arms stretched out over my head and my face flat to the ground.  I heard my precious bottles break and so, with the humiliation of the fall, the pain of the flat face, and the loss of treasure, all I could do was start to cry like the world was over. 

It wasn't until I stood up that I saw the cut.  Actually I didn't see the cut, I saw a copious flow of blood getting everywhere.  For a minute I was stunned to see so much of my blood all over my hand and arm and the ground and my clothes...then I really started to scream and took off at a run for Essie's house.  I hadn't gone more than a few yards when I was grabbed from behind by a large man dressed in work clothes and grease.  He picked me off the ground, stuck a rag over the cut and clamped down so hard it hurt.  A car pulled up next to us and the man jumped in with me on his lap and yelled to the driver, "GO GO GO!".  

We pulled into the parking lot of a doctor's office and the man carried me inside at a run.  The next little while is kinda blurry;  I mean, I was near to passing out from loss of blood, I was scared because I was hurt, I was in the hands of strangers, and I had no idea where my mom  was.  I do remember everyone was in a big hurry.  There were nurses and the men who brought me there and the doctor all talking at once, dashing around, then it suddenly got real quiet while they laid me on a table, stretched out my arm and the doctor leaned in over my wrist...poking and prodding the slice that seemed to be a foot deep and about a yard long.  They gave me shots to fight infection, shots to deaden the wound, and shots for tetanus (still a common problem in the 50s).  At some point during all this I must have passed out because I came around to my Mom's teary face pressed against mine.  The doctor was still stitching;  I couldn't feel much but kinda felt obliged to keep crying and whimpering and screaming when he tugged on a stitch.

When all the stitching was done, and the huge bandage was in place, we went home.  I was to stay in bed for days, not move the wrist, stay quiet, and rest.  And no, no soft touch.  Trick-or-treating was definitely out.  So I laid on the sofa and watched my cousin hand out the candy, wearing my Roy Rogers hat and gunbelt as the only concession to the holiday. 

Over the years, the legend grew and getting the details accurate is probably hopelessly lost.  But a few things I do know are:  The doctor told my mom that if I had run home I most likely would not have made it.  Even if I had made it home, there was a good chance I would have bled out before they could have gotten me to a doctor.  I never knew the names of the guys who saved me.  They worked at the garage which was on the northern corner across from the store.  I don't know if it is truth or embellishment that they both got fired for taking a customer's car to rescue me and got blood all over the seats.  I know that the scar on my wrist is about half an inch across and three inches long and there is something missing under it;  there is a dent there that isn't on my other wrist.  I know that the guys who grabbed me and transported me saved my life.  The doctor commented that it was lucky they knew what to do.  I know that from the position of the scar, I am very lucky to have full use of my right hand.  I don't really know how they found my Mom.  I must have told them somehow, but I didn't know phone numbers or addresses so I am not real sure how that happened.  In all, it was one of those things that I look back on and think, "Someone up there was watching out for me".

One last thought, lucky it was 1953.  and not today.  Today there would be so much consideration for legalities, kidnapping, liabilities, and such, I would have been a drained-out little husk before anyone did anything.