MY MOTHER SAID, "IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, SEND ME HOME."

MARCH 6, 1946.  I'm in the hospital for banking a $0.50 coin in the wrong slot.  The pictures show the exact replica of the coin that I swallowed in the classroom of one of the most incompetent teachers who ever had access to the front of any group of students.  I am convinced, and I am not the only one, that she was more out of her mind than in it.  One time before this incident, JMT Dion was so fed up with this loonie lady that she told me "If she doesn't like it, tell her to send you home."  Well, wouldn't you know that the micro-managing, detail oriented, anal-retentive maniac complained about my manner of dress, again.  I gathered my testosterone all up in one big dose and said, "My mother said that if you don't like it, send me home."  You've seen the cartoons where Mr. Magoo slowly turns to a boil and then destroys everything within and without reach...I'm sure you have.  Well, that's what happened.  After she got done insulting me for using my mother's name in vain, she sent me packing.  I left, but I have to say, not happily.  Heck, at 8.5 years of age, I didn't know what was awaiting me at home.  But I had nowhere else to go, so home it was.  Much to my surprise, and relief, Ol' Mom was more disconcerted than anything else.  She couldn't bring herself to believe that I had quoted her.  BUT, when the telephone rang and the principal was on the other end of the line, MJT Dion knew that she had an interesting situation on her hands.  She now knew that she was going to have to deal with the head of household.  Yep, Ol' EFR Dion himself.  Heee!  Now, Mom and Paul were both in "No Man's Land."  It felt strange being in league with my mother waiting for the uncertain reaction of the MAN, the one with whom she threatened us all the time, "I'm going to tell your father."  
it was about 1:00 PM and there were at least five more hours left before "X" Hour.  I didn't know what to do, so I went to bed.  Around five o'clock I reported to my mother to help with the preparations for supper.  I could tell that by now she was fairly comfortable.  I never knew if she had telephoned her husband or if she was just sure that she had her story line down pat to take care of the situation.  Comes 5:45 PM.  EFR Dion gets home.  Pours himself his habitual double shot of brandy, has a seat and asks how the day went.  So, she tells him the story.  He puts his glass down, asks me if it happened that way.  I say "yes."  He asks if I can go back to school tomorrow.  "I say, I guess so."  He looks at us both, smiles and says, "I know you'll never do that again."  He knew! He knew. He knew that the teacher deserved it, but he couldn't or wouldn't admit it.
That teacher NEVER messed with me again.  Nor with my mother and father.  What a glorious victory!  >>>> But wait, that's just the beginning of the story.
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Four months later, the drama hits.
It is some time after the middle of February, late second week or early third week.  I'm sitting in the classroom with nothing to do, listening to the rant of you know who.  My right hand goes to my pocket and I feel the little pouch that holds my bus ticket money.  I feel something there and so I sneak it out, unsnap it [whaddya mean, zipper?] and find a .50c coin.  I take it out and examine it, and somehow I get oral with it and start to fondle it with my tongue.  I get wrapped up in the concupiscence of the sensuality of the moment and before you know it, the mass is in my throat and I am the victim of my own stupidity.  I have implanted a valve in an air passage that should not have a valve at that position.  I jump up, run to the teacher's desk, groan that I have swallowed fifty cents, and in the same motion, run for the door, open, turn left, run for the stairs. [I'm on the second floor and the toilets are three floors down, in the basement.]  I'm still alive and I'm still running.  The valve seems to be stuck in the correct position to allow some airflow.  But it hurts.  You know, the ridges that these things have.  I don't dare breathe too deeply despite the fact that I'm running and taking the steps two and three at the time.  I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, there's no one around, I'm all alone and I can't talk."  Just keep going, only two more flights of stairs left before you get to water.  I remember thinking that if I could get to water,  I might survive the choking bit because the water would make my throat a little bit slippery.  As it turn out, the theory was correct.  The source of lubricant was a surprise.  As I hit the cement floor of the basement and took the left turn through the door into the boys toilet, the coin triggered the vomit reflex that had not yet gone off.  Now the spasms came, strongly.  All that came was vile tasting stomach acid and whatever else more.  None of it came close to being spit out because the coin got wrapped up in the fluids, my throat got slippery and before I could spit anything out, everything kicked into reverse and without so much as a quick U-turn, went plunging down into the depths of my body. I stopped.  Stood there in disbelief and physical relief.  I was pain free and I was breathing normally.  I had a vile taste in my mouth and I was starting to shake all over.  A short moment after the reversal of my plight, the first grade children and their teacher were entering the building from recess.  They saw me in evident disarray and the teacher came to my side, put one arm around me and guided me to the water fountain.  I have to say, THAT felt GOOD.  I drank and was able to smile a bit.  She asked if I was all right.  I said I was.  She asked what had happened and when I said that I had just swallowed a .50c piece, she just nodded to be polite and turned around just as my teacher and the principal were arriving.  My teacher, yes, that one, was speechless.  I looked at her with neutral eyes.  The principal asked if I was well, and I said yes.  She ordered me to follow her and told my teacher to return to the classroom.
That's the first part of the story.  The hospital part comes next time after I think you've digested this part well enough.  Please permit me to say that there is not one bit of exaggeration in this relation.  I am living every moment so clearly that I am marveling at the power of human memory.  I think I am beginning to understand how the survivors of the Holocaust can remember the fugitive officials after decades of separation.  I have often wondered about that.  Tonight, I think I have a glimmer, faint, but sure, that it is possible.  Amazing!
A bientôt.