The ceremonies began as my brother Bill chased me around the house so that I ran headfirst into a wall and started bleeding profusely. The babysitter, who had anticipated a quiet night, began screaming and called her mother. An ambulance soon was summoned, and I was rushed to the hospital.
As the festivities spread, my dad soon after excused himself from my mother's side in the neonatal unit and went to check on me. I was admitted and given several stitches to my forehead, all unknown to my mother, who was preoccupied with a newborn.
Back home as they lay in bed in the darkness amid the glow of the evening's activities, Blair leaned over and whispered to Bill, "David's dead. You killed him."
I hope this, the 50th anniversary of Neil Armstrong's first steps on the moon, is a memorable one for you and your whole family.
