Both my husband and I bear the scars of early burns. Mine is under my chin and dates from a very minor, almost funny childhood accident; his scar is on his arm, dates from the hour of his birth, and tells a more somber tale.
One memorable summer when I was a young camper we were sitting around a campfire toasting marshmallows on sticks as a counselor told a ghost story. Intent on the scary story, I took my stick out of the fire to eat my toasty marshmallow but as I raised it to my mouth it hit me under the chin instead. Now decades later I have the scar of what I affectionately call my “marshmallow burn”.
How my husband was burned is quite a different story.
They were able to get visas for Bolivia where they lived for the duration of the war and where my husband was born – prematurely. The hospital conditions were relatively primitive and there were no incubators for premies. Instead the 5 pound baby was placed on a shelf under the table where his mother had labored, and where she was then being treated for a serious post-partum complication. Meanwhile a hot water bottle was placed beside the infant and altho it kept him warm, it badly burned and scarred his arm. But thankfully mother and baby survived their ordeals and after the war the family sailed for the States.
Of course my husband doesn’t remember the kindly Bolivian doctor who delivered him and treated his mother, and has only heard the hot water bottle story that explains his badly burnt arm. But he does have wonderful memories of his early years in Cochabamba, a city of beautiful fountains, squares, and parks.
And as a three-year old he remembers playing in a Bolivian park where a peacock frightened him by suddenly spreading its beautiful feathers.
– Dana Susan Lehrman
This retired librarian loves big city bustle and cozy country weekends, friends and family, good books and theatre, movies and jazz, travel, tennis, Yankee baseball, and writing about life as she sees it on her blog World Thru Brown Eyes!