There was a little girl who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead;
When she was good, she was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.

When I was little, I used to think this poem (a mother goose standard) was about me. But in my case, the curl was the slightly curved scar on my forehead.

I have a few memories of the scar came to be, and the rest of the story has been pieced together by family members. Here it goes:

One long winter day back in the 80's, when I was a little girl, came a snowstorm much like the snowstorms the east coast has seen recently. The snow piled up and up and up - and as a rambunctious little girl, I had so much energy from being cooped up inside that my mother brought out my little plastic turtle tricycle to ride around the house.

The turtle trike was a miracle of plastic, with a hollow plastic seat/body and hollow plastic wheels and a friendly turtle face moulded on the front. It was lightweight & small enough to maneuver around furniture on the carpet. And so, around and around the house I went on my little turtle trike.

I was busy playing when all of a sudden, a loud scary scraping noise went by outside. A curious little girl, my mother held me up to look outside in the cold winter wonderland to see "the plow" a large scary beast that came down the street, but I couldn't get a good view. The next time I heard scraping I ran to the window in the dining room, I climbed up onto the bench we used to seat more people at the table, but I still couldn't see out the window to the street. Being a creative problem solver, I lifted up my plastic turtle trike, climbed up onto the bench, stepped up onto the turtle trike, and -- WHAM! -- the trike rolled out from under me, sending me flipping over, head first into the corner of the hardwood bench in the dining room.

My mother came running at the crashing sound, to find me sitting, stunned, on the floor. It was only after I saw her face I realized I should be crying, and only after I saw blood on my hands that I started screaming. I was whisked by my mother, a nurse, into the car only the plow had successfully pushed all that snow off the road creating a wall of snow at the end of the driveway.

An uncle of mine was coming to meet my parents that night, in his sporty new car. His new car that he bought with the money he earned working a second job selling Cutco Knives. He was coming to sell my parents some knives. Imagine his surprise when a bleeding child was hoisted over a wall of snow and into his new car, to bleed on the upholstery.

By the time I got to the ER, I was calm and quite enjoying the excitement. In the ER treatment room, I recall laying on my back with a collection of doctors and nurses focusing on my forehead, occasionally seeing a needle & thread as they stitched me up. I saw it as my job to entertain everyone - which I did by telling stories and doing finger-puppet plays, and playing with a stuffed doggie given to me upon my arrival to keep me company. I'm told I didn't stop talking the entire procedure. They stitched me up, good as new, and sent me on my way to meet my family.

The nurse handed me a lollipop as we walked out to meet my family. My father met us at the ER, while I was being stitched up, and first thing he did was promptly take my unopened lollipop away from me because, "There's no eating or drinking in the car." A rule he insisted would mean his car wouldn't get dirty, or full of crumbs, and would have better resale... but of course he smoked in the car everyday. I, upon loosing my candy and being very tired having missing my nap that afternoon, started screaming and crying. This was the scene the operating surgeon walked into as he came out to brief my parents on the procedure. He began by asking, "What did you do to her? She was so happy and delightful with us!" the rest of the conversation was lost on me, as I was busy throwing a temper tantrum.

Later, my father brought me the lollipop when I was playing in my room. It was an odd color, and had a clear wrapper with a dog or bear wearing a green hat on the wrapper. I couldn't get the wrapper off, so I called my dad back in to help. Upon eating the candy, I'd never tasted something so vile and horrible in my life. It made my eyes burn, and my throat itch. I spat it out, and looked at my dad as if he'd poisoned me, asking him what it was. He took a look and a sniff and said, "butterscotch." I snatched my prize back from him, and stubbornly tried to eat more of it until he left the room. To this day, butterscotch brings tears to my eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My parents were warned by the surgeon, who luck had it was a plastic surgeon, that I might need plastic surgery later to fix the scar that would be left. Other than meaning left eyebrow is slightly bushier near the bridge of my nose than my right eyebrow, it only appears when I'm frowning or deep in thought.

And my uncle? My parents bought a Cutco knife from him after all.