The Little Red Wagon published

("God Forbid..." excerpt & printed Yesterdaysmagazette 3/10)


In the summer of 1944, when I was five and my twin friends were six, we decided to fetch the little red wagon from the shed behind my house. As I pulled the Radio Flyer, the twins pushed. The huge oak trees arched our way along the sidewalk. We scampered towards busy New York Street in that quiet northern Illinois town. The street had to be crossed to reach their house and backyard sandbox.

We knew we had almost reached the corner when we passed by the three-foot brick wall surrounding Mrs. Jennings aging, southern-like home. At the last thirty feet or so before reaching the corner, the sidewalk narrowed due to the overlapping and crumbling brick wall. When we got to the corner, I pulled the wagon into the street glancing to the left, but the twins let go. Halfway across, a car struck me. All I remember is the two girls’ screaming before I blacked out.

At the hospital, I opened my eyes to see my mother’s worried expression. She stood next to the bed holding my hand, and then said, “You were hit by a car… and not just any car. It belonged to your sister’s high school teacher.” Mom added, “She’s waiting down the hall to hear how you are.”

I was still in a daze, but sat up and sipped some water. “What were you thinking?” Mom asked. “Didn’t you look both ways like I taught you to do?”

After admitting I’d forgotten to look to the right, the doctor strolled in and said, “She’s going to be fine. She just has a sprained ankle. The nurse will wrap it and then she can go home, but keep her off that foot for awhile.”

Mom thanked the doctor, turned towards me, inhaled slowly, and then exclaimed, “Don’t you ever do anything like that again.” I sunk back down in the bed. When the nurse brought a wheel chair, Mom wheeled me down the hall, stopping to thank the music teacher for waiting and informed her that I’d be okay. Then she hastily ushered me out of the hospital.

Just as Mom was about to lift me into the car, I asked, “What about my little red wagon?”

“There is no more wagon,” Mom said plopping me down in the seat. “Not now, not ever. Furthermore, you won’t be crossing any streets without an adult for a very long time.” Then she shut the door and marched around to the driver’s side.

On the drive home my ankle ached. I wished I had remembered to look both ways. As my ankle throbbed still more, I groaned and thought, I don’t care about my little red wagon and if I never cross another street— that’s okay too.