It seems like such a long time ago...

 This last week I spent quite a bit of time going through a lot of old photos and correspondence of my Grandmother Margaret Ellen Red Wilbanks. My cousin Gordon Luce found the materials and knowing of my interest in our family history, gave them to me.

Looking at old family pictures from as far back as the early 1900's and reading letters written to my grandmother as far back as the 1930's gave me a ton of insight into my Dad's side of the family that I have never had before. They told a story. But sometimes the story was frustratingly incomplete. an unidentified person in a photograph, reference to someone obviously important but unknown to me in a letter. In the end, I am so grateful to have the opportunity to see this story, even though it is incomplete.

Ellen Adair Carey (left) and her sister
Ann. Ellen was Grandmother Margaret
Ellen Red Wilbanks' Grandmother.

I wonder if some day in the future an ancestor will stumble upon this family information, with the excitement and interest that has possessed me. Will they wish they had more info? Or will they be less interested, and perhaps move on to more pressing matters.

More pressing matters. As I look back on my life, the "more pressing matters" definitely change over the years. When I was much younger and my extended family was mostly alive to recount stories and answer questions, it wasn't a "Pressing matter" to me. So I mostly relied on the knowledge I gained through "osmosis" from my parents and grandparents. Stories told not through interrogation, but those that came up in the course of everyday life. Perhaps a few "proud moments" related to me at various times. After many years, and as the older members of my family passed on, I had the sense that I had a pretty solid feel for my extended family's history. Going through boxes and bags of old photos, records, and correspondence made me realize how much deeper the story was.

It also got me to thinking: how complete would my story be to my kids and descendants. I have written a few blogs about "things" in my life. Perhaps, I need to get a little more organized and tell the story as best I can. Somehow there is comfort in the thought that future Wilbanks' wouldn't be wondering and wishing they had asked me more questions while I was still around to answer them.

I was born in 1952 in San Diego California. I was the second son of four. My older brother, Thomas Donald Wilbanks III (Donnie), had been the first born two years earlier. He had been a "breach baby" delivered by my Mom with great difficulty. The doctor advised that I should be delivered via caesarian section, and my Mom readily agreed. I wrote about my earliest memories in an earlier blog. However, I want to recount the general events of my early life as I remember them. Many of these earliest memories are from what I learned from my folks.

I lived in San Diego for the first four or five years of my life. We lived in a small stucco house in the suburban area of La Mesa. I have disjointed memories of playing in a park sand box where I happened to excavate some cat droppings from the neighborhood wanderers. They seemed pretty interesting to me. Luckily my watchful Mom caught me before I put them in my mouth to see what they tasted like. Maggie wasn't so lucky with the bloated ticks from our dog Trooper!

That's me on the right standing up. Oddly
that's the same technique I use today!
Don's on the left

I believe it was here in La Mesa (perhaps later after we moved to North Hollywood) that I had a close call with Dad's "Toro" power lawnmower. As I remember it, it was a beautiful, sunny southern California weekend day and Dad was cutting the grass. He was emptying the grass catching bag into a pile on the side of the house. We might have been storing it there to compost into the garden later. I'm not sure what the final disposition was. But what little boys would not be fascinated by a giant pile of grass clippings to play on. Donnie and I went to it like bees to honey. 

Dad walked the huge growling orange mowing machine back and forth across the lawn while my big brother and I played. The scent of fresh cut grass and engine exhaust dominated. We soon discovered it was fun to pick up handfuls of grass from the big pile and heave them at each other. We were both running around barefoot, shirtless, and wearing shorts. The "grass-ball" fight distracted us completely from everything else. 

Suddenly the game became who could hit the other with a fistful of grass, and escape from being hit by a retaliatory toss. I'd hit my older brother with a grassy missile, but before I could run out of range he would nail me with another green glob. This went on for a bit, Donnie patiently waiting with his pre-loaded pasture ammo for me to approach and fling a load his way, then instantly targeting me before I could get away. I reloaded, determined this time to fling the vegetative grenade and flee so quickly that he would miss me. 

This was our house in North Hollywood.
 Looks like brother John standing by the tree
in the background.

Unfortunately for me, Dad was just approaching with the mower to dump another load when I threw, instantly turned to escape...and ran right into the machine. 

Luckily I stopped short of ramming my bare feet into the spinning blades of the grass eating monster. However, I couldn't stop my momentum, and flopped forward onto the mower. I remember the loud noise and vibration of the little 4 cycle engine and the sudden stop as my Dad quickly shut it down. I was sprawled over the top of the thing, my belly lying directly on the hot muffler. The pain was incredible. Dad grabbed me, yanked me back onto my feet, and saw the skin of my belly starting to blister.

The next thing I remember is being in the emergency room, with the doctor explaining to Mom and Dad how to care for my second and third degree burns.

I had been "branded" by the cooling fins on the engine's cylinder head. The pattern was that of four or so parallel strips of badly burned tissue. I remember Dad telling me that it looked like a tiger had clawed me, and that I could make up a cool story to tell all my friends about how I had wrestled with a tiger. Oddly, this seemed very comforting to me.

The burn healed without complication, and became quite a topic of conversation as I grew up. I usually told folks the truth. It finally became hardly noticeable, unless it was summer, and the contrast with my tan would still provide enough contrast to see it. It made some interesting conversations on a few dates to the beach. Even today you can still see a very faint scar. A reminder of that day I wrestled with the tiger that had somehow escaped from the zoo...OK, it was a grass fight with my big brother... and a lawnmower. Geeez!

That's All...for now!