Long time readers are familiar with my many Close Calls, some of which involved my Dear Mother, the guardian angel who snatched me away from an early demise on a number of occasions. In her memory, and for new subscribers who may have missed the first iteration, here is the new and improved telling of those crazy events.
In the first accident, I was a little tyke old enough to be left alone in a bathtub, but not yet old enough to appreciate the danger of a gas heater. In retrospect it was a parental mistake, but it helps to remember what a different time that was. To wit, there were many road trips when we the kids would sleep on the shelf behind the back seat, where a sudden stop could have catapulted us through the windshield and into a hemorrhagic pose on the hood. Seat belts? Not sure those were even invented yet. If they had been, oblivious adults would have figured they were good for nothing except pressing on your bladder full of beer.
Get this … the grownups would smoke cigarettes with the car windows rolled up. Just hold your breath kids, you’ll be fine. And if we were lucky enough to contract an earache they would blow the warm smoke right into the canal, which was then packed with cotton, I guess to keep the smoke from escaping before it had a chance to work its wonders. I kid thee not.
Back to the bath … squeaky clean and with pruney fingers, I decided to climb out of the tall, antique clawfoot tub all by myself. Not taking into account my soapy slipperiness, I landed squarely on top the scorching red hot heater. Cue the terror soundtrack.
Nothing like a cub’s blood-curdling scream to get mama bear going at full run. When she lifted me off the blistering monster, the skin of my entire left side stayed behind. What a blessing that we humans so often don’t much remember the kind of pain that pegs the needle. If we did, mankind’s extinction would surely be assured. Imagine mothers of the world recalling the agony of childbirth, “Oh hell no, not doing that again!”
The doctor’s advice was simple: Slather the wound with Vaseline daily and cover it with fresh gauze. Miraculously, it healed completely smooth, leaving not the first trace of a scar. Real doctors were everywhere back then.
Had the accident happened in “modern” times, I would have been hospitalized, had my immune system blasted with toxics like a tetanus jab, a C19 clot-shot-from-hell and had my micro-biome assaulted and demolished with “broad spectrum” antibiotics. I would have been smothered-by-mask and after turning the right shade of blue, finished off with a ventilator. But I digress.
The next mess happened one day just after grade school had adjourned, when I challenged my mates to a foot race home. Unbeknownst to me, the grumpy old man on the corner had strung barbed wire to keep those pesky kids from short cutting across his precious grass.
The strand that stopped me in my tracks was about the same height as my lower lip, from which I dangled, writhing like a catfish on a hook. Once again bloody screams lit Mother up, who was fortunately hanging clothes on the line within earshot. Skillfully backing out the barb, she lifted me free.
Bleeding like a fleeing pirate, I wailed. Stabbing facial pain and the harsh realization of such poor decision-making is enough to make a grown man cry, let alone a punk. And never mind the epic ego crush of losing so miserably in a stupid race of my own making. I did get a nice little scar, though. I know nose rings and tongue studs are all the rage these days, but for some strange reason I’ve just never been able to get excited about getting a piercing. Maybe I’ll get some lips tattooed on my neck.
In Dallas circa 1959, Mom saved not just the four of us in the Dodge Coronet, but probably also the folks in the cars stopped at the light at the bottom of the hill. Descending down Harry Hines Blvd, she stepped on the brake, which fell straight away, to the floorboard below.
“I got no brakes!” she gasped. Frantically stomping the pedal, she shrieked at the cars dead ahead waiting in the crash zone. Meanwhile, gravity was having its way with us. Rather than plow headlong into sitting ducks, she swerved hard right, executing a perfect, center mass hit on a fire hydrant. The formerly serene scene erupted into the cacophonous screech of smashing metal, the swooshing roar of a new geyser and the requisite screams that go with sudden terror.
Brother Rick and I, at ages four and six, were small enough, agile enough and dumb enough to bail out the rear windows in the split second before the collision. How we both escaped without a scratch was a mystery on the order of the JFK thing, which a few years later just so happened a few blocks from all this, an irrelevant sidebar if I ever saw one.
The spicy twist in the story was provided by my colorful alcoholic grandmother, who had been riding shotgun and swilling her usual Falstaff breakfast of champions. Sprinting out from stage right, salvation appeared in the form of a gas station attendant, who quickly assessed the situation, snagged the six pack and spirited granny away before the cops could arrive and bust us for drunken driving, which we were not. I swear it Ossifer.
So, this little article is dedicated to Mom, who departed this cruel world for her special place in heaven a few years back. Without her, I might have never lived to survive so many more Close Calls, let alone be able to scribble away endlessly to my dear readers here on the Stack.
And here’s to Moms everywhere, much Love to you all,
~~ j ~~
“The way people come into your life when you need them, it’s wonderful and happens in so many ways. It’s like having an angel. Somebody comes along and helps you get right. ~~ Stevie Ray Vaughan
Sara Barlass
May 13, 2026 at 11:02 pmWhat terrific, funny and clever writing!! Made me chuckle and it created vivid pictures in my mind!! Great stories and cheers to your mom! They really were true heroines!!