Monkey Blood

When I was about 11 years old we went on a family vacation to Nashville, Tennessee.  There was my mom and dad, us four daughters and my sweet Aunt Becky.  We went in the huge family van pulling a small travel trailer.  My dad had welded on a rack on the back of the travel trailer to also carry 2 mini-bikes that he had made for us girls.

After going through many states and seeing lots of wonderful things, we finally made it to Nashville.  Only, there were no camping spots.  So we drove north until we passed the Kentucky state line and were fortunate enough to find a beautiful camping spot at a state park.  We set about making camp, but all me and my little sister wanted to do was get on those mini-bikes.

One of the mini-bikes dad built was faster than the other.  Naturally, that is the one we both wanted to ride, so we decided to share it.  We were going to a spot where I would jump off the mini-bike and we would take turns riding it.  Only, I miscalculated the speed when I jumped off, resulting in me face-eating asphalt.  My little sister, upon hearing my moans, could only turn and laugh.  She laughed for 10 minutes straight while I staggered to my feet, blood smeared and black from the asphalt on my face.

And that is the story of how I came to be at the Johnny Cash Museum with 'monkey blood' all over my face.  That's iodine to the unenlightened, that burning red stuff used back in my day, and the only stuff we had in our trailer for the scrapes. 

 

 

 

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