When I was a little boy, there wasn’t anyone
nearby for me to play with.
I grew up in the Irish-Catholic settlement
of Brudenell, Ontario, Canada.
It was a ghost town before I was born.
Less than thirty people lived there.
But I loved to run around all day and explore
our huge backyard.
My teddy bear would sit in my wagon and watch
me.
He was blind in one eye, just like my dad.
I loved my teddy bear.
 
Sometimes, I’d run with my arms out, pretending
I could fly.
Have you ever done that?
One day, a rake had been left lying against
my wagon, with the teeth side up.
I didn’t see it.
I stepped on the rake.
 
The handle flipped up and smacked me, really
hard, right on my nose.
Can you imagine how painful that was?
It hurt me so much!
I could smell my own blood.
My eyes filled up with water.
But I wasn’t crying.
I want to be clear about that.
 
I ran to the kitchen to tell my mom.
Mom was usually in the kitchen.
I told her that the naughty rake had hurt
my nose.
She kissed me on the nose to make it better.
It didn’t work.
It still hurt.
I wanted her to come outside and punish the
rake.
But instead she said, “Peter, you’re fine.
Go outside and play.”
 
I didn’t like that.
I mean, whose side was she on?
I was innocent.
It wasn’t my fault; it was the rake that
was bad.
Now I was angry at my mom and angry at the
rake.
 
Whenever I did something bad, I was always
punished.
That rake deserved to be punished, too.
When my dad got home, I told him about the
naughty rake.
 
Dad listened to me and said, “Show me this
rake, son.”
Right away, I felt better.
Dad was on my side.
He would punish that naughty rake.
 
I showed my dad the rake.
He smiled at me and said, “I know just how
you feel, son.
This rake has hit me in the face, too.”
 
I knew it!
Dad understood.
He knew this was a bad rake.
It had hurt him, too!
Now he would punish it.
“Does your nose still hurt?” he asked
me.
“No, it feels fine now.”
But I still felt hurt and angry.
 
“Son,” he said, “I love you, and I wish
I could protect you from all harm.
It’s too bad you got hurt, but you don’t
have to suffer.
The rake didn’t hurt you.
You hurt yourself, and now you’re upset
about it.”
It was my own fault?
This was crazy talk.
Now I was angry with my dad, my mom, and the
rake.
As soon as my dad was gone, I jumped up and
down on the rake handle, yelling, “Bad rake!
Bad rake!”
 
I was innocent.
It wasn’t my fault.
I warned my little sister, Sandy, about the
rake.
I was her big brother, so it was my job to
keep her safe.
“This is a bad rake,” I warned.
“Stay away from it.”
Sandy smiled and gurgled.
She didn’t talk much, yet.
She was just learning to walk and kept falling
down, all by herself.
I jumped on the rake a few more times, to
teach it a lesson.
 
I had taken my revenge, but I never did forgive
that rake.
I mean, how could I?
There was nothing to forgive.
As I got older, I understood that my dad was
right.
I had created my own suffering.
I never forgave my dad for not punishing the
rake, because there was nothing to forgive.
I never forgave my mom for not taking my side,
because there was nothing to forgive.
I never forgave myself.
