When
we moved to the other side of Santaquin and away from the trailer
park we bought an acre lot that had an old house still on it. When we
first moved there all we did was bring our mobile home and park it in
the middle of the lot and use the front house as storage for my dad's
appliance business. He collected a lot of old remaindered appliance
parts which he was going to use to rebuild some other appliances
sometime. This actually never happened. We had stacks and stacks and
shelves and shelves and piles and piles. All throughout the house
was just full of motors, transmissions and different crap and
miscellany. If we wanted to earn money or we were in trouble or for
anything we had to go out and organize the shop. That was the mantra
of our child hood 'organize the shop'. I don't really know what my dad
thought that meant because it was never organized in the sense that
there was a logical and systematic order to the items making them
useful and valuable. There was far too many things to be organized in
any sensible system and I was not sure what things went where so I
would just take stuff and put it on shelves or into organized looking
piles. Around our house friends were often press-ganged and so this
day Nathan, Ryan and I were all out working and I was putting a motor
up on a shelf. I had placed the motor up on a shelf about eight feet
off the ground. We were listening to the radio as we toiled and when
I finished putting the motor up high a quite popular number by the
name of 'Can't Touch This' by Master of Ceremonies Hammer came on.
I started doing a goofy 'Can't Touch This' dance to amuse my friends
and somehow in my dance I flailed into the the shelf and caused the
recently reposed motor to fall. It fell onto my head and as far as I
could tell knocked me unconscious. I am not sure if it knocked me
unconscious because I don't remember a small swath the time there before I was getting revived by my friends from what I can only
assume is unconsciousness, but like I said I don't know, I wasn't aware of what was
happening around me at the time. When they got me up I had a big
bleedy gash on my forehead and was quite woozy. I now recognize these,
after the years passing and the brain tissue healing sufficiently
to think properly and remember stuff, as the signs of cudusioun or
something that sounds very similar to that. When I told my dad that
I'd been hit in the head with the motor he comforted and reassured me
as was his caring and sweet way that I should not be and idiot
stacking things in a stupid way and it was my own fault. If it was
anyone's fault it was Mr. Hammer and his irresistible beats.
