When I was eleven years old, we were living in Oakridge, Oregon.

One of my chores was chopping kindling for the family's wood stove. One evening I forgot to do it before dark, so I had to go outside after seven o'clock.

As I chopped the wood, I thought I heard a bear.

I startled.

The hatchet slipped and struck me on the top of my head.

When I finally went back inside, my mother looked at me and said,

"You look as white as a sheet."

I told her what had happened.

No one took me to a doctor.

No one took me to the hospital.

I recovered on my own, but something had changed.

For years afterward I struggled in school. Before the accident I had done well. Afterwards I found it difficult to remember my lessons or complete my work.

Only many years later did I begin to wonder if I had suffered a concussion that was never treated.

I can't know for certain what might have been different.

I only know that after that night, learning no longer came as easily, and life seemed to become more difficult.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if that single moment with a hatchet quietly changed the direction of the rest of my life.

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