A correction, a fish tank, and the phantom railroad accident

First I must correct factual information in my previous entry.� I don’t know what blogger etiquette is, but instead of actually editing the entry, I’m doing it this way.� I thank my mother, Phyllis, and my brother, Karl, for filling me in on this early period of my life beyond the scope of my memory.

Dr. William H. Knobloch, contrary to said misinformation, did NOT conduct my eye surgery in 1966.� I’m not sure that they did in this first surgery, but it was done by a Dr. Brochhurst of Boston.� My dad was attending Brown University on an NSF scholarship and we lived for a year or two on Ruth Avenue in Rumford, Rhode Island.� After completing his Masters there, my dad moved us to Thief River Falls, Minnesota to take a job at Northland Community College in its innagural year.� He actually travelled to TRF ahead of the family, and my courageous mother travelled by bus and train across the country with three children – Karl (6), Ruth (4), and me (2).� Family legend has it that she actually attached a leash to me for the majority of the journey.� Since that time I’ve always responded well to any training accompanied by treats – dog or otherwise.� I also answer to, “Here, boy!”

The “buckle” was added in a second surgery in 1968 in Madison, Wisconsin by a Dr. Davis.� I remember this journey.� My mother and I took a train from TRF, switching trains in the Twin Cities.� I remember the hospital stay.� There was a large and well stocked playroom, and I built a pretty impressive house of wooden blocks with my roommate.� His legs were in braces and didn’t move much.� He would push himself around on the glossy tiled floors with his hands, his stiff legs stuck out in front of him.� I built him into the house.

There was a fish tank built into a wall and I could see a conference room on the other side (the surgery was clearly a success since I was seeing at all).��I remember watching the angel fish flutter slowly past, and suddenly recognizing my mother and a doctor facing each other across a table on the other side.� They appeared to be in deep conversation.� I pressed my face against the glass, waving wildly (in my memory), but neither my mother, the doctor, nor the angel fish�took any notice of me.� I don’t know how long we were there, but it must have been a good week.

I have another peculiar memory of the return trip.� My mom does not remember this, so I doubt it somewhat, but it’s always been a pillar of my early memory canon.� The train stopped in the middle of a rural area, and someone�rushed through our train car asking for a doctor because a child on the tracks had been run over, cutting off his legs.� I remember seeing this boy in my imagination.� He was my disabled roommate, his legs now gone, being carried by a doctor from car to car.

I suppose I could sleuth out whether such an accident really happened between Madison and St. Paul in 1968.� Real or not, it’s always been a stark image that my mind returns to when I think of my earliest years.