Memories of Broken bones

It's 1980 and I'm in 8th grade. Every kid has to have at least one broken bone. It is a right of passage to break a bone and display the trophy cast for all to scrawl their names on. I had delayed this occurrence for a few years until taking an untimely fall from a Jungle Gym and snapping my wrist. Nothing major, just a broken wrist, soon to be crowned with a cast. I was in Jr. High and I felt well deserving of the coming recognition. And it all fell right into place; x-rays, casting, trophy presentation, stories, and signings. Finally, the long anticipated four week deadline for removal was upon us. When the day came I removed all the itching tools stored inside and headed to the doctor to get the trophy removed. I was sad. It had become a part of me, a valuable part of my person, now I would have to use other ways to get girls to talk to me. I was introduced to the special vibrating saw used to remove plaster casts. Interesting, it really didn’t cut the skin. Cool. The cast came off without a lot of fanfare until the smell of my arm filled the room. Four weeks earlier I was so excited to get a cast I paid no attention to the dirt and wood chips all over my arm. I just wanted the cast. I was a Jr. High boy; God made dirt, dirt don’t hurt! (Unless it is left in a cast for four weeks.) The technician just about lost his lunch, called in a nurse and left. Mom was none to happy and went off on the nurse even though she had nothing to do with the presence of the dirt and stink, nasty stink. I survived but my image of HMO’s was a wee bit tainted. And in the end I did find other ways of getting girls to talk to me.