As we grow older, we tend to talk about the added aches and pains that we experience. I'm not so sure about our claim. I can remember pains from my childhood that were more severe than today's arthritic joints.

Leg ache was the worst malady. Sometimes a spell would last for days. In summertime, I would lie in the hot sun with my leg exposed; in winter, I stood in front of the fireplace and "baked" my leg.

At school, I tried sitting on my leg, folded beneath me in my seat. Whether any attempted remedy helped, I don't know, but I was willing to try anything.

Accompanying the leg ache was the fear that it might be a symptom of dreaded polio, the plague of the time. I vividly remember hiding in the barn loft and crying from the hurting, protecting my parents from the same worry.

Skinned knees were common injuries, and there was not a way to prevent an active youngster from bending the knee, breaking the scab and delaying its healing.

Going barefoot was one of the best pleasures of warm days, but with it came stubbed toes. Over and over, I would hit a sore toe on chair and table legs or a rock in the path, and the pain would shoot through my whole body. A rag bandage meant to shield the toe would not stay tied on but for a few steps.

New shoes--and old ones that didn't fit right--rubbed blisters on heels and toes, causing suffering of the worst kind.

I frequently had a cut finger, most often because of my not being careful with Papa's borrowed pocketknife. He would caution me and open the blade that was best for me to use when whittling, but I managed to stray from his instruction, and accidents happened.

Then Mama was called in for treatment with that stinging antiseptic. She wrapped the wound with strips of soft, clean rags kept in a certain drawer of the washstand and held them in place with a stall, sewn to fit the finger, with ties around the wrist.

We coexisted with cats at the barn and on the back porch, and I was rarely without claw marks on my arms and legs. Briars encountered in the woods and fields left similar rips in the skin.

I had the toothache a lot before my permanent teeth emerged. In those days, going to the dentist to care for "baby" teeth was out of the question. We soaked a wad of cotton in oil of clove, bit down on it and endured until the aching subsided. That particular pain educated me to take good care of my teeth thereafter.

I had no brothers, but I watched boys at school boast of a black eye and proudly point to injuries. I'm not sure, but I'll bet that they tenderly nursed their bruises in secret and maybe even cried a little.