In his memoir, “Knucklehead,” the wildly popular children’s author Jon Scieszka recalls his childhood growing up in Flint, Mich., with five brothers. Diversions like playing with fire and being left at home to watch his siblings — “We watched Jeff roll off the couch, we watched Brian dig in the plants and eat the dirt” — vied with the favorite family sport of “slaughter ball.” Which was pretty much what you might imagine, with a football. As our reviewer Lisa Von Drasek notes in this Sunday’s Book Review, “Good thing Scieszka’s mom was a nurse.”
We invite readers to post their own entirely true stories of the most knuckleheaded thing — defined here as risky, dangerous, absurdly pointless or all three — they ever did when they were growing up. In my own case it involved a late-night picnic on the roof with my best friend on Christmas Eve, a purple cape, a passing police helicopter, a burglar loose in the neighborhood, sirens, and confused relatives in their pajamas being pulled out of bed. But enough about me. What’s your story?
This post brought to you by Dyslexia Tutor, who told me, and Out In Left Field, whose son is pushing the envelope.
Comments