When he was a young boy, he was nicknamed Paquet, which is French for Packet, as in 'a small package'. Was he a package of joy, or of trouble? A miraculous package dropped from the heavens by a generous stork? No, these connotations would have taken some imagination on the part of his name givers, and in this case, the boy was simply short and stocky. But we digress...

One day, it was so hot that even the birds were panting. And the television's black and white pictures dripped so that his mother could not recognize the distorted faces of her favorite soap characters, no matter how hard she worked the television's vertical-hold button.

"Put on your bathing suits, boys! We're going outside." His mother extinguished her cigarette, stepped out and lit another. When Paquet and his brother exited the house, they were received by a well-aimed spray of cold water, as their mother held a garden hose in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
In that tiny instant, before he had decided to run for it, Paquet focused on her mother's evil grin. Her square white teeth were clenched, yet a curtain of cigarette smoke squeezed and snaked upward from between her white Chicklets, draping her face like the devil himself, rising from hell. "Whaaaa!" is what he finally said as he started his dash.

He was mindful of staying on his side of the invisible fence that separated his neighbor's well-manicured lawn and gardens, with their jungle of waste-high, brown grass, ragweed and other exotic wild flowers. The plan was to reach a corner of the yard, and simply duck.
Paquet sprinted toward a narrow, rotting, wooden box that was once used for planting vegetables. He leapt, and gracefully cleared the box with plenty of room to spare. But when he landed, myriads of thoughts crossed his mind.

Some had said that Paquet had been slow in learning to walk because he was lazy, but truth is, back then, he was too busy thinking and reflecting on whatever fourteen-month-old babies reflect upon. And at that instant, before the pain shot up his leg, along his spine, to finally register in his brain, he reflected on how his mother always yelled at his father to please cut the grass. He remembered his mother pleading for a new rake to work the vegetable garden, as the old rake was lost. And then he realized that he had found the missing rake.

"Whaaaaa!" is what he finally said.

His mother grabbed him around his pudgy belly like a heavy sack of potatoes, and he could feel the rake following him by a prong, as she pulled him toward the steps and sat him down. Paquet's face was lit and his eyes huge when he stared at the tip of the pointy prong that surfaced from the top of his right foot, like a glacier piercing through a frozen ice cap. But before he could think some more, his mother pulled out the rake in one swift movement, and many more wails ensued.

It was at the doctor's office that his mother learned that not only was her son very stubborn, but also extremely strong when provoked. The doctor was was indeed provoking him, as he reached for his foot with a very long, dripping needle. He was aided and abetted by a nurse who held one arm, while his mother held the other. He kicked the doctor with his free leg, and when the nurse subdued the leg, Paquet released the arm that she now held with only one hand, then grabbed the doctor's wrist. The nurse let go of the leg to recapture the boy's arm. And then more kicks-more wrist grabbing-and the game of paddy-whacks lasted a long time before the needle finally found its mark.

After Paquet had returned home, and is mother reminded him not to remove the pretty bandage, he did just that. He lifted the cottony gauze and stared at the beautiful little star that now adorned the top of his foot. He had no way of knowing, back then, that this would be the first of many more battle scars that he would later be proud to show and tell.