Jun 20, 2021
7 min read
Ether
The Taste of Death
In July of 1958, while visiting my friend Åke and his family in Stockholm, I broke my right arm.
A covey of pre-teen boys, me included, were macho-ing (swinging) across a narrow and shallow crevice on a rope tied to a branch high above and spanning the crevice — hanging down from it for us to grab as we leaped. It was a thick rope, sturdy and dry and hard — if not impossible — to miss, unless…
