When I was six and my sister Nicole was three, we lived in Independence, Missouri, not far from Dad’s parents. It was an eventful year.
On one occasion, my sister was playing on the metal slide that was part of a swing set our dad was assembling in the back yard. She managed to slice open her knee pretty dramatically. It took about six stitches, but for most of her life, when she tells the story, it took 125 stitches and “hideously scarred her for life.”
That same summer, Nicole and I were playing in the back yard when Mom, who was making supper, decided she needed a tomato from the garden for the hamburgers. She came through the garage and stepped off the back porch. When she did, she stepped into an unseen hole that was overgrown with grass and sprained her ankle. With kids who were too small to help, she called for Dad, who came lumbering awkwardly as fast as he could speed-walk through the garage, stepped onto the porch, then into the same hole, spraining his ankle, and falling right next to Mom.
Since I have no recollection of how the two managed to get back into the house, I assume they are still there to this day.