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When I was young, probably 7 or 8, my Uncle John came to visit in the summertime to help my Dad paint our house. Looking back, it was a huge undertaking for just two people. We didn’t live in a mansion by any stretch, but it was still a good sized, two-story home.
Looking back on that summer, one of the things I remember very well is the Saga of Dad’s Broken Arm. It all started one morning when my sister and I were out playing in some large cardboard boxes on the front porch. We had decorated the boxes to be like time machines and were blasting through the space-time continuum like Thelma and Louise minus the whole driving off a cliff thing. 🙂 Anyway, after we arrived back in the 20th century, I remember my Uncle John telling us that we had to go to the hospital because my Dad fell off a ladder and they thought his arm was broken. In addition to that, he had a small gash on his forehead that was bleeding quite a bit.
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