In which I answer a random question generated by a website. Here’s this week’s questions. Feel free to give your own answers in the comments.
Since last week’s potpourri went so well, I decided to answer multiple questions again. I find that as I progress through the list, what remains seems less interesting to me. Although I can answer, I really can’t or don’t want to at length, so in interest of not needlessly padding things out, here we go.
What’s the worst injury you’ve ever gotten?
You know, I’ve actually managed to live a remarkably injury-free life (knocks wood.) I didn’t break my first bone until I was 21, in college, and it didn’t even have anything to do with drinking. It was the first day of the second semester my junior year (technically first semester of my senior year, but that’s a long story), and my birthday.
I was about to head off to my first class, but opened the living room window in our student apartment to check to see if I’d need a jacket since… February. It was cold, so I decided that I did, then slammed the window shut… right on the tip of my left index finger.
Did I mention that the apartment mate I shared a room with was in the living room on the phone talking to one of the Big 5 Accounting Firms in hopes of setting up a last semester of senior year internship that would turn into a job? Because that’s important.
Why? Because as soon as I slammed my finger in that window, I screamed something along the lines of, “Oh Jesus fucking fuckety fuck fuck fuck fucking Christ goddamit!”
There was a pause, and then I heard my roommate saying into the phone, “No… I think that one of my roommates just hurt himself.”
Hairline fracture of the tip of that finger, which got put in a splint for six weeks — and hooray for free student health care! But damn if that fingertip did not become a magnet for getting banged into everything for that month and a half.
The only other time I broke bone, ironically, was one in my wrist, and I never realized it. In fact, I didn’t find out until I thought that I did break a bone in my wrist and got it checked out only to find out that the little bone fragment in there was from a really old break. Like, what?
So, yeah. That’s pretty much it. One really minor break, one that was apparently unimportant enough for me to notice, and one false alarm.
Did your family take seasonal vacations?
Um… sort of? One thing I know is that my mother hated to travel, while my father loved to. Then again, she grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania that was a suburb to an exurb of the city Joe Biden was born in, and she only ever lived there before moving to Los Angeles, basically as a way to escape there.
Meanwhile, my dad, who was much older than her, enlisted in the air force as soon as possible — he was actually only sixteen — in order to escape here, and he wound up traveling all around the U.S. and a lot of the world.
But the only seasonal vacations we ever took involved visiting relatives — either his parents not so far up north, generally at Easter and Thanksgiving, or her mom and family all the way across the country, usually in the summer, and which I can remember doing exactly four times in my life, although it was actually five.
The first two times were by air, one for my aunt’s wedding in which I was ring-bearer. The time before that I have no memory of because I was a baby, but it was one of those “wave the infant in front of grandma” trips.
The last three were when I was a tween and teen, every other year in the summer, by car. To me, it was amazing. I was fascinated by seeing all of these new places, many of them definitely far different in a lot of ways from L.A., and my views untainted by any kind of political perception.
Wyoming is an absolutely beautiful state, for its mountains, clouds and spreading green, cow-splattered landscapes. So are Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah — and in New Mexico, you can actually feel the point when you reach the “top of America,” on a lonely road that passes between granite boulders strewn on deep-looking mossy lawns. The air thins and the path grows steeper and you meet the Rockies.
Small towns along the way in Iowa and Nebraska just fascinated me, and I will forever have memories of the seemingly abandoned and ancient buildings along the main street of a place called Kearney, Nebraska. Although we never actually stopped in Chicago, again, it fascinated the hell out of me — especially since I grew up in a city that technically had a river which was mostly a concrete ditch, whereas in Chicago I remember driving on a freeway past one row of skyscrapers only to pass over a substantial river right in the middle of the city before passing into another row of skyscrapers.
Most of Indiana just seemed… sad and broken. And Ohio through most of Pennsylvania just got monotonous, endless views of rolling green hills and not much else.
On the other hand, I entertained myself by either reading tons of books or, on the later trips, writing, and it was on one of those trips, I think when I was 13, that I actually wrote most of the first draft of my first attempt at a novel, inspired by the spaces we were driving through.
One other thing I should mention: We made the trip in record time because my dad would drive for at least 12 hours a day. I distinctly remember that the first leg of one of them left L.A. before five in the morning, and we didn’t stop until Rock Springs Wyoming, until at least six p.m. Go look that trip up on Google maps!
Still, I don’t think that it was that Dad was a maniac. Mostly, I think it was that Mom didn’t want to travel without the dog, didn’t want to put her in cargo on a plane, but wanted to make the trip as quickly as possible.
The only touristy bits I remember were the day that my dad and I went into New York City and took a tour (loved it!) and the time my uncle took us both into Philadelphia to show us all the historic stuff (also loved it!).
Meanwhile, trips to visit my father’s mother and my step-grandfather involved about a three-and-a-half hour drive and no tourism, but the great part about that was that she and her husband lived on a 14-acre farm and orchard, so there was plenty of nature and there were plenty of animals to hang out with — and this locale also inspired my writing.