Scarred for Life

The first major upset in my life occurred when I was nine months old, although I was, of course, far too young to remember it. It was during the middle of February 1948; I caught a cold. My mother put a saucepan of milk on top of the stove and lit the gas. The liquid is heated to a pleasantly warm temperature, after which a quantity of butter is added. In those days, warm milk and butter was Glasgow’s general homeopathic medicine for any child’s nose that ran with two green streams. In winter, the two green streams would become a river noticeable in just about every kid in Glasgow because of the cold weather, coupled with poorly insulated housing and childish pleasures at jumping into every available puddle. The poor insulation probably caused my winter cold. Being less than a year old, I was far too young to enjoy the pleasures of jumping in puddles.  

 Mum put a pot of milk to warm, on top of the stove, with the pot handle sticking out. She then told Niki, my elder sister who was four years old, to watch me. I’m not sure where Mum went, but Niki became absorbed in playing with her dolls and forgot about me, which is no more than any four-year-old should be expected to do. So I crawled into the kitchen, grabbed hold of the oven door, and somehow managed to pull myself up to a standing position. Then, holding on to the oven door with one hand, I reached up, grasped the handle of the pot on the stove top, and pulled. 

The now boiling milk spilled out and landed on the right side of my chest. To this day, I am thankful the milk missed my face. Mum heard my screams and came rushing back into the kitchen. Niki told me years later that she felt so guilty because Mum screamed at her,

 “I told you to watch him.”

 I have absolutely no memory of the burn; however, I am happy to say something good came out of it. Over the years, I have worn my chest scar with pride, and it has paid me back in numerous ways. Two separate memories spring to mind, one recently, when I was a teacher, and the other, from my time living in Kibbutz Ein-Dor, in Israel. 

 When I was teaching 3^rd grade in Moriches Elementary School on Long Island, a teacher in the faculty room, who shall remain anonymous as I don’t want to embarrass him, noticed my scar and asked me how I got it. I couldn’t resist and went into a dissertation apropos the Scottish Haggis bird. As everyone in Scotland knows, it is perilous and can only be hunted during the all too short Haggis season. I explained that I was out Haggis hunting, not only illegally, as it was out of season, but I was also only fifteen at the time and, therefore, three years under the legal Haggis hunting age. I then mentioned that I managed to procure an adult bow and a quiver containing arrows, which were kept in the cupboard in our hallway, under the stairs leading up to our bedrooms. Our parents warned my sisters and me to keep out of the closet, although we were never told why.  

Of course, the fact that we were forbidden to open the cupboard made it even more enjoyable. I had to take up the challenge, and whenever I was left alone in the house, I would peek inside as it wasn't locked. In that tiny space beneath the hallway stairs, I found a treasure trove of oddities, including gas masks from the war, a toolbox, and best of all, a haggis hunting bow, plus a quiver containing a few arrows. Next, I explained that the haggis is an extremely dangerous bird that is native only in the Southwest and far north of Scotland. I then gave him a short lecture concerning the haggis. The brief talk is now as follows: 

"Haggis meat is delicious, but if it encounters lead or any other metal for that matter, the flesh quickly becomes rancid. That is why it is necessary to hunt the bird with a bow and arrow that isn't tipped with metal and not with a rifle." I explained to him that it was imperative when haggis hunting to be 100% positive your aim is exact.  

If the arrow doesn’t penetrate between the bird’s eyes and you only wound it, you will find yourself being attacked by an angry haggis, whose claws can burrow deep into your flesh and cause lifelong scarring at the very least. As I was only fifteen and full of a teenager’s belief in my invincibility, I just knew I would make a direct hit between its eyes.

 Unfortunately, my aim fell short of my bravado. Nevertheless, I pulled the bow taught, took a bead at the bird’s forehead, and watched with satisfaction as the arrow streaked through the air and with unerring speed and precision grazed the Haggis’s left wing and bounced off the branch on which the bird was perched.

The next thing I heard was the sound of my feet equaling the speed of an Olympic sprinter as I ran to save my life. Fortunately, nearby there was a partly hollowed-out tree trunk. I almost smashed into it and sustained a scratched nose. Worse than that, the damned bird managed to impale its claws deep into the right side of my chest. I managed to stumble home, my chest a scarred and bloody mess. The doctors in Glasgow’s Stobhill hospital patched me up. That was my first and only time as a haggis hunter. 

The poor man bought the whole story, while the other teachers in the room were either gripping their stomachs or covering their faces with their hands to not advertise their emotions. He is the only person I have ever met who bought the story.  

    Another time I used my burn to advantage occurred while living in Kibbutz Ein-Dor in Israel. The Kibbutz is situated in a beautiful valley lined with almond trees on one side and cotton fields on the other. The side road into the Kibbutz lies halfway between the towns of Afula and Tiberius. It is also about a kilometer east of Mount Tabor.

 There were always around 30 volunteers on our kibbutz. Most of them came from Scandinavian countries, although we also had volunteers from the USA, Britain, and as far away as Australia. So, what does this have to do with my burn? My job on the kibbutz was to work in the citrus orchard with two other guys. We always needed volunteers to help pick the fruit and attend to other work as required. Well, at every opportunity, whenever a female volunteer asked me why I had a scar on the right side of my chest, I would look humble and tell them I got it while I was in the army. When asked how I got it (and they always asked me) I would elaborate on my heroic stance in defense of my country, depending on how attractive she was, it never failed. That is the main reason quite a few female volunteers would set off for work in the morning from my room instead of theirs. Looking back now, it seems strange, but I really must thank my mother for her carelessness.