Don't Cross The Street - In The Middle

   Dispensing practical advice to kids is just one of the many jobs assigned to parents. You can’t blame them. They see danger where a kid might see fun. Armed with anecdotes about kids who blew their finger off with firecrackers or lost their sight because they wouldn’t eat carrots – parents have a sworn role to protect their kids.

   There was no lack of advice and caution in my household.  I love my parents for it now but I might not have felt the same when I was a kid.

   That’s why I felt so guilty when I ignored my mother’s advice to “never cross in the middle of the street.”

   As a result, I was hit by a car when I was twelve years old.  I slipped my bicycle out into the middle of the street between two parked cars and wham! 

   My bike took most of the hit but the slow-moving car’s bumper popped me in the shin.  It shook me up but not as much as it shook up the elderly driver. I assured him that I was fine and I began walking the bent bicycle home.

   Walking, actually limping, home I was reminded of an annoying but catchy public service announcement that ran on New York City TV and radio stations in the 60’s. It was called “In The Middle.”

   Don't cross the street in the middle in the middle- in the middle - in the middle in the middle of the block; Use your eyes to look up -Use your ears to hear -Walk up to the corner when the coast is clear -And wait - And wait …Until you see the light turn green!

   Find a baby boomer from NYC and they will probably sing the whole tune for you. It was written by longtime songwriter Vic Mizzy who also penned classic TV theme songs including The Addams Family, Mr. Ed and F-Troop.

   Vic’s song was speaking to me on that fateful day.  I had indeed crossed in the middle and in the process I had almost given a little old man a big heart attack. I was too old to be scared and too young to realize how lucky I was that I could even limp away.

   My real fear was facing my mother.  “If I tell her, I will get in trouble for disobeying,” I mistakenly concluded.

   Therefore I did what many adolescents in my situation would have done…I said nothing.  It wasn’t actually a lie, I reasoned, if I didn’t say anything.  Instead, it was more of a cover-up.  I hid the bent bicycle, limped for a few days and surprisingly got away with it.

   I finally did tell my mother almost thirty years later.  She was up late one night watching Carson and we started swapping secrets.

   “Did I ever tell you that I got hit by a car when I was twelve,” I asked her. “Really,” she said not flinching at all. “Yeah – it was no big deal but my bike got crushed and I was afraid to tell you.” 

   Without showing any surprise or concern she paused and then said “what else haven’t you told me?”

   No reports were filed the day I got hit by a car but the evidence still exists on my left leg where a small indentation perfectly fits the front bumper of a 1966 Oldsmobile.

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