The summer of 57 was hot even for Monterey.  Mother would send us out about mid-morning to “get the stink blown off” as mother would say. We were to occupy ourselves until either we got hungry or in trouble. These were the day’s before IPad, and video games so off we went.  Out to another grand adventure.
My big brother went over to his friend’s house, my little sister was only 4 and not much fun to play with unless I could torture her.  So I had to find something to do. I was bored and it was hot. So after much thought, I had a grand idea. I will build my own swimming pool.
Off to the garage to find a shovel. The front yard was just to conspicuous.  And Mom would not like me digging a hole in her begonia beds.  So around back, out of sight of my mother, I went out back and started to dig a big hole.  Well it was big to me. At the age of seven it must have been twenty feet deep, but in reality it could not have been more than a foot or so.
The next step would be to fill it full of water.  I pulled the hose around from the front and hooked it up.  And started to fill my grandly architected and executed swimming pool.  The water that came out was cool and felt good as it splashed up on my bare feet.  Soon it was full.  I turned off the water and came back to my swimming pool.
I didn’t want to get my pants wet (that was a real no no to Mom) so I pulled off my jeans.  I took a number of steps back and started to run toward the inviting pool of water. With each giant running step was filled with anticipation of a cool immersion in that now very muddy puddle.
With wild abandon I leapt toward the self-made invention. With all the energy of that a 7 year old boy could have and with visions of diving boards and no lifeguards I jumped feet first into that opaque pool of mud and water.
That moment has been permanently embedded on my mind all these years.  Because in the midst of ecstasy, youthful anticipation, and total abandon, I landed on the shovel I had left in the bottom of the hole.  I hit it with the heel of my right foot and split it up to bone.
In an absolute crescendo of pain I yelled and dragged myself out of the hole.  Blood gushing everywhere. I still have the scar on my foot.
This is one of the reasons I would suppose that has made me a pragmatist. A person that must see the practical resolutions, the solutions to issues along with my belief.  A heart needs hope, faith, belief.  The inner soul needs to hold on to something beyond self.  It that split second I believed with all my little life in the sweet refreshment of that little pool of water.  But this experience taught me that I needed to look before I leap.