I found the tweets: My sister Robyn wrote, “Are we talking about the miraculous "no torn stockings, but burned leg" episode?”
@dcflemflam wrote, “Vanessa, it’s me. The biker from the past”
I can’t remember if it was Easter or Mother’s Day, but it was a sunny Sunday afternoon in the early 70’s. A dear family friend, my Dad’s Navy buddy Leroy Highe, who’d survived the explosion while aboard the USS Bennington, was in the hospital. There had been a fire at his workplace and he was fighting for his life once again. My parents took us to the Ulmer’s apartment on 13th Street, SE, because we were too young to go to the hospital. Margaret and George Ulmer were like family, too. It was always fun visiting their apartment. If you just had to have a babysitter, Margaret was it. She could really cook, always had tasty treats, and was always kind and fun. Their only son Warren was like a brother and he had the best toys and board games.
Before my parents left for the hospital, my Mom reminded us we were
still wearing our “church clothes”. I remember how much I loved the white lace tights I was wearing. After an hour or so of being inside, Margaret didn’t mind if we went out. There was a sidewalk right outside the door that led to the back of the building, and a large, grassy yard facing 13th Street. She admonished me to stay right in front of the building where she could see me. She also reminded me of what my Mom said, “Don’t mess up your good clothes”. I went down the stairs and out the door. There wasn’t much to do except walk around. At some point I remember seeing Warren’s friend Darrell riding his bike. I watched as he rode across the grass and down the sidewalk. He’d disappear behind the building and then appear again. As he rounded the corner one last time he decided to ride on the sidewalk where I was standing near the door to the apartment. I guess we both thought the other would move when he collided into my right leg. I remember how strange it was that the wheel of the bike continued to spin. I don’t remember crying or anything. I guess we were both in shock; just standing there taking in what happened. After a brief exchange— my declaration that he ran into me, and his half apologetic, half perplexed argument that I should have moved— I went into the apartment. As
soon as Margaret saw me and the black spot on my tights, she said, “Lord, you done messed up those stockings! What happened?” I told her I was just standing on the sidewalk and Darrylell ran into me with his bike. “Well, it doesn’t look like they’re torn or anything. Take them off and I’ll wash them.” I was
having trouble, so she helped me balance myself. Then she saw the blood oozing from my lower leg. The lace tights had held back the
bleeding. She screamed, then apologized for screaming. “Come on! I gotta get you to the hospital
” Somehow the tire had burned a hole in my leg. At the hospital, Margaret had no patience with the intake nurse who was asking all of the obligatory questions. I remember her uttering the words “bleed to death” then whispering to me, “You’re not gonna die, I just want you to see a doctor NOW.” It was the first time I got stitches, and had to wear a big gauze bandage for weeks. The wound didn’t heal nicely at first because of my skin’s tendency to form keloids. I always joked that the smooth, V-shaped (or L depending on how you look at it) battle scar that remained was a lesson— when you see something coming at you, AND you have time to move out of the way, DO it. It’s funny, but I was never mad at Darryl and we continued to all play together whenever we’d visit the Ulmers on 13th Street.
A few years ago he found us on social media. We laughed about the over 50 year- old bike incident. He even apologized again.
I found out last night that Darrell passed away. His funeral was Saturday. When I saw the obituary photograph, I could still see the 10 or 11 year-old I knew so many years ago, standing astride his bike, wondering if I was going to tell on him; wondering if he was going to be in trouble. “It was an accident” I remember telling him. It’s funny how kids think. I guess we both learned lessons that day.
Rest In Peace, Darrell Dion Fleming.
http://m.huntfuneralhome.net/obituaries/wall?obituaryId=4019214
I can’t remember if it was Easter or Mother’s Day, but it was a sunny Sunday afternoon in the early 70’s. A dear family friend, my Dad’s Navy buddy Leroy Highe, who’d survived the explosion while aboard the USS Bennington, was in the hospital. There had been a fire at his workplace and he was fighting for his life once again. My parents took us to the Ulmer’s apartment on 13th Street, SE, because we were too young to go to the hospital. Margaret and George Ulmer were like family, too. It was always fun visiting their apartment. If you just had to have a babysitter, Margaret was it. She could really cook, always had tasty treats, and was always kind and fun. Their only son Warren was like a brother and he had the best toys and board games.
Before my parents left for the hospital, my Mom reminded us we were
still wearing our “church clothes”. I remember how much I loved the white lace tights I was wearing. After an hour or so of being inside, Margaret didn’t mind if we went out. There was a sidewalk right outside the door that led to the back of the building, and a large, grassy yard facing 13th Street. She admonished me to stay right in front of the building where she could see me. She also reminded me of what my Mom said, “Don’t mess up your good clothes”. I went down the stairs and out the door. There wasn’t much to do except walk around. At some point I remember seeing Warren’s friend Darrell riding his bike. I watched as he rode across the grass and down the sidewalk. He’d disappear behind the building and then appear again. As he rounded the corner one last time he decided to ride on the sidewalk where I was standing near the door to the apartment. I guess we both thought the other would move when he collided into my right leg. I remember how strange it was that the wheel of the bike continued to spin. I don’t remember crying or anything. I guess we were both in shock; just standing there taking in what happened. After a brief exchange— my declaration that he ran into me, and his half apologetic, half perplexed argument that I should have moved— I went into the apartment. As
soon as Margaret saw me and the black spot on my tights, she said, “Lord, you done messed up those stockings! What happened?” I told her I was just standing on the sidewalk and Darrylell ran into me with his bike. “Well, it doesn’t look like they’re torn or anything. Take them off and I’ll wash them.” I was
having trouble, so she helped me balance myself. Then she saw the blood oozing from my lower leg. The lace tights had held back the
bleeding. She screamed, then apologized for screaming. “Come on! I gotta get you to the hospital
” Somehow the tire had burned a hole in my leg. At the hospital, Margaret had no patience with the intake nurse who was asking all of the obligatory questions. I remember her uttering the words “bleed to death” then whispering to me, “You’re not gonna die, I just want you to see a doctor NOW.” It was the first time I got stitches, and had to wear a big gauze bandage for weeks. The wound didn’t heal nicely at first because of my skin’s tendency to form keloids. I always joked that the smooth, V-shaped (or L depending on how you look at it) battle scar that remained was a lesson— when you see something coming at you, AND you have time to move out of the way, DO it. It’s funny, but I was never mad at Darryl and we continued to all play together whenever we’d visit the Ulmers on 13th Street.
A few years ago he found us on social media. We laughed about the over 50 year- old bike incident. He even apologized again.
I found out last night that Darrell passed away. His funeral was Saturday. When I saw the obituary photograph, I could still see the 10 or 11 year-old I knew so many years ago, standing astride his bike, wondering if I was going to tell on him; wondering if he was going to be in trouble. “It was an accident” I remember telling him. It’s funny how kids think. I guess we both learned lessons that day.
Rest In Peace, Darrell Dion Fleming.
http://m.huntfuneralhome.net/obituaries/wall?obituaryId=4019214
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