It is a gloriously sunny late afternoon in 1958. I’m 10 years old and standing on the porch of our house at Ninth and Northeast Broadway in Portland, Ore. To my left, I can see my father through the living room window as he reads his afternoon paper. He is a distinguished-looking man of 55. He stands five feet, six inches tall, 165 pounds, with lightning reflexes and uncommon strength; a natural middleweight with the shoulders and arms of a heavyweight. The Great Depression, military service and illness had interrupted his medical school efforts. Late in life he became a dentist.
Turning, I walk down the steps from our porch to see our neighbor, Mr. Ring, and his buddies as they finish securing a bundle onto Mr. Ring’s motorcycle. I read the letters “BMW” on the gas tank and watch as the friends joke about “roaming all over” and “finally having found her.” Mr. Ring laughs and waves to all as he sets out for Mexico on this gleaming anthracite machine with the whisper-quiet exhaust. He will return a year later with beautiful Esmerelda on the back.
Sounds from a group of children on the street corner to my right. They jostle and laugh, then dash across Broadway ahead of traffic — all but one. She is about 5 years old, wearing a little cotton sundress with a red ribbon at the back. Barefoot, with blond Shirley Temple curls, she hesitates, brings one tiny fist to her mouth, then darts into the street, chasing the boys who have left her behind.
I shout “No!” as I see a new Ford convertible just ahead of traffic — the driver’s hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.
With a slamming of brakes and a sickening sound of impact, the tiny girl bounces off the bumper and tumbles like a rag doll to the pavement. People come running from homes and businesses as all traffic stops and the driver collapses, crying, by his car.
The child lies motionless with a strip of scarlet down the front of her dress.
With gentle hands
I see my father vault one-handed off our porch and onto our driveway and run quickly to the still form of the little girl. Untouched by all around him, with the gentlest of hands, he probes this tiny body. Then, after what seems an eternity, the little girl sucks in a quick breath and gives a shrieking wail of shock and pain. At the sound, my father’s shoulders lowers and he half-smiles.
As the ambulance crew runs up, my father stands and tells them, “Broken right femur, ribs, concussion, small scalp laceration.”
The lead medic thanks my father as they gather up the tiny child.
My father walks over to me, puts a hand on my back, and turns to watch the crowd disperse. With eyes fixed on the middle distance he says, “You always hope and pray to hear that first blood-curdling scream.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because,” he says, “it means they are alive, and you know you have done your job.”
He tousles my head and I follow as he goes back into our home. I watch quietly as he settles himself again with his newspaper, pauses, then says, “Oh look … they might make Alaska a state.”
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