DECEMBER 22, 2021 – It became a family Christmas legend—me eating ornaments and landing in the hospital. No one could later remember the year. I figure it was 1956. First, I was old enough to have sufficient reference points to remember salient details of the story. Second, I wasn’t old enough to have known better than to chomp, chew, and swallow glass ornaments. December 1956 would’ve put me four months past the two-year mark—the perfect age for the stunt I pulled.
I remember exactly the ornaments: musical instruments—specifically, imitation horns and trumpets. I understood that the real things were played by putting the mouthpiece—to the mouth. So why wouldn’t the ornaments “work” in similar fashion? Since they weren’t the “real thing,” surely at a minimum they’d be something you could put into your mouth, and what you could put into your mouth, surely you could . . . bite and chew. That was the logic that set things in motion.
The first bite rewarded me with “crunchiness,” resonating inside my jaws and giving incentive to bite and chew bigger pieces to experience more of a good thing. When my older sisters sounded the alarm, my horrified parents reacted with grand dismay over the pain, suffering, and certain adverse effects of splintered glass sticking into my tongue, throat, and innards. I can’t say I experienced the process as they perceived I did. I took another big bite and chomped until a parent’s hand yanked a little French horn violently from my grasp.
That Christmas was years before the advent of 9-1-1, and thus, my parents took emergency matters into their own hands. I remember no details of that part of the story, however; just that it was a blizzard of commotion. Perhaps by the time Dad’s Buick Super squealed out of the driveway I was experiencing pain and crying my little head off, but I don’t remember any of it.
The next thing I do remember is lying in a crib being rolled into a hospital nursery. Other young kids were jammed into the space, and many hollered away with nothing that resembled holiday cheer. In the next crib, positioned at right angles to mine, was a kid with a toy cash register. I have a distinct memory of this and my desire to have one just like it. The clarity of that memory tells me the year was no earlier than 1956.
I also remember my parents’ exchange with the treating physician just before my discharge. The conversation occurred in a hallway, and I was struck by the echo along the enameled brick walls. I noticed how shiny they were as my parents and the doctor discussed (presumably) my care in coming days.
Recalling the “legend” often leads to telling about a subsequent Christmas misadventure. My kid sister was being carried past the flocked tree and decided to reach out and grab a branch. Never underestimate a toddler’s impulsive grip. It can bring down a whole Christmas tree and smash ornaments into glass confetti.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
