A Foot in the Door
People talk about "getting your foot in the door" as a way of being in the right place at the right time, so something good will happen as a result. For me, though, getting my foot in the door was the beginning of a rather painful chain of events that would never happen in the twenty-first century.
It happened the summer before Laura was born, when I was six. Mom and Dad had taken a rare fishing vacation to Minnesota, leaving Dan and me with Grandma and Grandpa Wegner, who came to stay with us at the Oxnard so they could run the hotel while Mom and Dad were gone. It had been a traumatic morning, to begin with, because our beloved yellow canary had choked on a seed and died. Perhaps Grandma was trying to make us feel better about our poor pet, because she decided to make pancakes for breakfast. However, we were missing some necessary ingredient, so Grandma, Dan, and I walked the half block, across the alley, to the nearest grocery store to buy what we needed.
Nowadays, most grocery stores sport signs that say something like, "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service." In those days before central air-conditioning was common, men who worked outside without shirts often entered stores in a shirtless condition. It was normal, too, for children to go barefoot all summer long, everywhere they went. So, of course, Dan and I didn't stop to put on shoes.
Unfortunately, our exuberant, black Cocker Spaniel, Daisy, scooted out the door ahead of us, and headed through the automatic door into the grocery store. I knew that dogs were not allowed in the store, so I ran ahead of Grandma, chasing after Daisy, through the door. When the dog darted back out the "in" door, I turned to follow her back outside, and learned a valuable life lesson: Never go out the "in" door! The automatic door started to swing closed, and raked right over the top of my big toe. I suppose that I screamed or cried loudly. There was blood everywhere.
The store employees thought I had come to the store alone to run an errand for my mom, as I sometimes did, even at the age of six. One of the clerks picked me up, wrapped my bloody foot in a towel, and quickly recruited another store employee to drive me to the nearest doctor's office. By the time Grandma and Dan made it to the "in" door, the clerks, who didn't realize that my grandma was with me, were hustling me out to a waiting car, on a mission to get me to the doctor.
I imagine that Grandma was frantic as the other store employees tried to explain what had happened. In those days before cell phones, no one had any way to find out where the two store clerks had taken me, so all Grandma could do was take Dan (and Daisy) back home to the hotel to wait for my return.
Meanwhile, the clerks had driven me to an unfamiliar doctor's office, where I received stitches, a large gauze bandage, and a sucker. The doctor treated me without a parent's knowledge or consent, maybe without even knowing my full name. The grocery store paid the bill. The clerks knew where I lived, and took me straight home after my toe was stitched up.
I doubt if we got any pancakes that morning.
It happened the summer before Laura was born, when I was six. Mom and Dad had taken a rare fishing vacation to Minnesota, leaving Dan and me with Grandma and Grandpa Wegner, who came to stay with us at the Oxnard so they could run the hotel while Mom and Dad were gone. It had been a traumatic morning, to begin with, because our beloved yellow canary had choked on a seed and died. Perhaps Grandma was trying to make us feel better about our poor pet, because she decided to make pancakes for breakfast. However, we were missing some necessary ingredient, so Grandma, Dan, and I walked the half block, across the alley, to the nearest grocery store to buy what we needed.
Nowadays, most grocery stores sport signs that say something like, "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service." In those days before central air-conditioning was common, men who worked outside without shirts often entered stores in a shirtless condition. It was normal, too, for children to go barefoot all summer long, everywhere they went. So, of course, Dan and I didn't stop to put on shoes.
Unfortunately, our exuberant, black Cocker Spaniel, Daisy, scooted out the door ahead of us, and headed through the automatic door into the grocery store. I knew that dogs were not allowed in the store, so I ran ahead of Grandma, chasing after Daisy, through the door. When the dog darted back out the "in" door, I turned to follow her back outside, and learned a valuable life lesson: Never go out the "in" door! The automatic door started to swing closed, and raked right over the top of my big toe. I suppose that I screamed or cried loudly. There was blood everywhere.
The store employees thought I had come to the store alone to run an errand for my mom, as I sometimes did, even at the age of six. One of the clerks picked me up, wrapped my bloody foot in a towel, and quickly recruited another store employee to drive me to the nearest doctor's office. By the time Grandma and Dan made it to the "in" door, the clerks, who didn't realize that my grandma was with me, were hustling me out to a waiting car, on a mission to get me to the doctor.
I imagine that Grandma was frantic as the other store employees tried to explain what had happened. In those days before cell phones, no one had any way to find out where the two store clerks had taken me, so all Grandma could do was take Dan (and Daisy) back home to the hotel to wait for my return.
Meanwhile, the clerks had driven me to an unfamiliar doctor's office, where I received stitches, a large gauze bandage, and a sucker. The doctor treated me without a parent's knowledge or consent, maybe without even knowing my full name. The grocery store paid the bill. The clerks knew where I lived, and took me straight home after my toe was stitched up.
I doubt if we got any pancakes that morning.
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