Service Station

I was caught in that kid's nightmare, removing a too-tight long-sleeved wool sweater, pulling it over my head and getting stuck, my head and arms firmly encased in its smothering embrace. Staggering around the room, I called to my brothers for help.

We were home from the Sunday church service and I wanted to be free of all encumbrances, both theological and physical. Ben grabbed the sweater and pulled. When I popped free, I fell backwards and cracked my head on the windowsill. Blood. Dizziness. Emergency room. Stitches.

I wore this small plaster dome on my head for a few days dreading the time the stitches would have to be taken out. When assisting my father on his bread route, we were leaving a few cake snacks at a service station. You remember service stations, don't you? They would wash your windshield, check your oil, pump your gas, take your money, get your change, while you sat inside your car. Well, this day I got an added service.

Doc Lee pulled up for gas and we said hello. He had delivered me and probably about half or more of the kids in Troup County. I'm not sure how it happened but the next thing I knew I was sitting inside the service station having my stitches taken out. Doc finished the job, paid for his gas, and drove on. No one seemed to think anything of it. A common service.