I’m sure there was a hospital in Sacramento that we could have gone to - that we should have gone to - but my best guess is that my dad simply didn’t want to be stuck two hours away from Berkeley when he had a class to teach the next morning at Cal. I'd just have to tough it out. 

Earlier that day we’d been skiing up in Tahoe and had stopped to have dinner with friends on our drive back to the Bay Area. Their home in Fair Oaks was conveniently located just a few miles northeast of Sacramento along the American River, but we were frequent visitors at their home even when we weren't just passing through. 

Some of my earliest memories are of my parents packing me and my older siblings into our car on Thanksgiving morning whereupon we would drive the approximately 90-mile route north along Interstate 80 through Sacramento to Fair Oaks. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by two of the most affectionate and affable hosts imaginable. Entering their home was like being swept up into a whirlwind - a swirling blend of smells and sounds - a convergence of conversations, laughter and, of course, food. Lots and lots of delicious food.

On this particular visit, I was a scrawny 7-year-old. It was getting late and we had just finished eating dinner. My parents, apparently none too eager to get back on the road, excused me to go play with our friends’ youngest daughter.  She was five years older than me, so while I suspect hanging out with a younger child was not her idea of great fun, she was kind and obliging and invited me into her room. 

Our time together started off uneventfully enough. There was a Magic 8 ball on her shelf that caught my attention. It was about the size of a small orange and fit comfortably into the palm of my hand. It was black and shiny and had a large number 8 printed on one side and a round transparent window on the other. She told me it could tell my fortune so I was intrigued. Inside the ball, a 20-sided die floated in a vial of dark liquid. Various short phrases were printed onto each of the sides. 

I was to think of a question - a yes or no question - something that I wanted to know about my future. Giving the ball a good shake, a phrase would appear in the window and that would be the answer to my question.

I marveled at how easily the die moved about in the liquid and noticed how sometimes it settled in the middle between two sides, so when that happened I got to choose the answer I liked best. I also observed that if I happened to ask the same question more than once, a different answer would appear each time.

Will I get a new bike for my birthday? Don’t count on it.

Will I get a new bike for my birthday? Most likely.

Will I get a new bike for my birthday? Ask again later. 

Some magic ball that turned out to be. Giving answers is easy. Coming up with the right questions? That takes practice. Getting what you want? Well, apparently that comes down to experience and will power.

After a few minutes, my friend suggested we play another game. Unfortunately, what she had in mind wasn’t so much a game as it was a stunt, a two-person acrobatic stunt. She would lie on her back with her legs in the air and all I had to do was lean my back side up against her feet, whereupon she would give me a push and I would experience flight.

Something about this scenario didn’t feel quite right to me, but sensing my hesitation she said I’d be fine. She’d done it before with her friends and it was a lot of fun. We would set up a pile of pillows in front of us so I’d have a soft landing. 

“Why don’t I launch you instead?” I suggested. 

“Sure, we could do that,” she replied, “but I don’t think you’ll be able to push me very far. I think you’ll have a lot more fun if I launch you instead.”

I have since come to realize that whatever visions of flight she had in mind for me that evening were clearly not equally balanced with an understanding of the various immutable laws of physics that govern projectile motion. With a quick thrust of her legs I was airborne, but there was no grace or elegance in my flight. First of all, my trajectory was off. I wasn’t heading in a straight course towards the pillows but rather far to the right. Furthermore, my body reacted erratically to finding itself mid-air; my arms and legs flailed about unrestrained. Finally, the cost of my right arm’s feeble attempt to brace my landing was unforgiving. 

Those at the table heard a loud thump and a crack. My arm was broken. Our visit was over.

I’m sure there was a hospital in Sacramento that we could have gone to - that we should have gone to - but my best guess is that my dad simply didn’t want to be stuck two hours away from Berkeley when he had a class to teach the next morning. I’d just have to tough it out.

And I did. I toughed it out. 

But pain has a way of remembering and I don’t forget that drive.