There was the 12-year-old, hammering nails up in the tree-house, the head of the hammer sporting a hatchet blade on its other side. Now imagine: Hammer… hammer…hammer…chop! Uh..Oh! Running to the house with a bloody scalp, on to down-town Houston with Mom at the wheel, Dal, the resourceful doctor, tying pinches of my hair across the wound as sutures, muttering “Gotdammit, Gotdammit,” correctly identifying me as a stone-age moron, an opinion regularly corroborated, past and future.
[The photo of Grainger is from earlier, but certainly pertinent nonetheless. And, boy, does Wil McCorquodale look like him, or what??? – Sperry]