We were visiting Marty’s parents on Thackeray in Portage la Prairie. I have no specific memories of that day except for this one. I heard screaming from the garage in which Peter (father-in-law) had recently parked his early sixties Oldsmobile, maroon, shiny, beautiful with a ton of chrome. Even the bumpers shone in their overwhelming chrome thereness. I (and likely the others) rushed to the side door that opened into the garage. There was Jess, poor, poor girl, lying on the cement by the car’s front tire, curled up in a ball, screaming and clutching her head. Blood gushed out between her fingers. The floor already had a red puddle underneath her head. I ran over and sat down trying to get her to answer me but she just continued screaming. Finally I picked her up and began rocking her, holding her tight to my chest. Eventually she gasped out, “bumper.” I looked over at it and saw a blood spatter on the sharp bumper edge. We got her hand from her face somehow and saw where the wound was. It looked raw and ugly. Then she finally began to speak between sobs and said that she’d been running and tripped headlong, landing against the bumper with her head (I immediately noticed that the bumper protruded a good two inches outside the car itself and had very sharp, unfiled edges). We held a wet cloth with ice against the cut, got her into our car and quickly drove her to the Portage hospital where she was sewn up with, I believe, 9 stitches. O, the pain she must have felt! How I hurt with her! It is so hard when your kids get an injury and are in such pain! Very hard for them and us.
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