We were staying some cabin at a small lake in northern New York State. I was playing on some boulders embedded into the ground, and apparently there was a nest wedged in between that I didn't see. I was wearing shorts, but my dad pulled them down and a bunch of wasps flew out. They rushed me to a nearby clinic where I was examined and determined to be okay.
That was the summer of 1967. I learned years later that they called it the "summer of love," but it wasn't really like that for me. On the same trip, we went up to another cabin by the St. Lawrence River. My brother and I were swimming in the river, and I felt a drop off and went underwater. That was scary; felt like I was going to drown. I think my dad pulled me up.
My parents, grandparents, and older brother went to Expo '67 in Montreal, but they didn't let me go. I guess they figured I'd cause some sort of disaster.
Later on, we traveled to Maine, and stayed at a motel which had a slanted parking lot, which was next to a fence, a cliff, and the Atlantic Ocean. While my parents were unloading the car, I somehow got into the driver's seat and released the brake. As the car went downwards towards the fence, my dad ran after it and got in and stopped it.
Exciting life you lead.