In the summer before third grade, Don & I got into a rock throwing fight with Barry Cottrell, my next door co-artist who helped me paint Don a year or so earlier. I peeked around the outhouse and took a direct hit to my cheek. I was bleeding pretty seriously, so the contest ended immediately – with Barry scrambling for home, probably terrified that he had mortally wounded me.
Mom was gone, so I found my dad and showed him my wound. His immediate response was, “Go show Barry’s mom what he did.” I guess it made sense to him.. Obediently, I did as told. I remember blood running down the side of my face and dripping onto their cement front porch. I don’t recall who finally cleaned me up, but as soon as mom got back with the car, we were off to the doctor for 6 or 7 stitches. My wound was clearly visible in my third grade photograph, and for many years to come.