And then....then

Life is a chain of events, I know that is true.  These happenings link up to form the past.  That is how it works, and wonderfully so.

What I desire for a while is a period of time in which the weeks are filled with simple day-to-day activities:  laundry, going to a movie, reading, and such. 

These past few years have been labeled “…And Then…” years.

In Illinois, my mother started to decline, “…And Then…” started.  Each phone call and each visit always led to something more.  When Mom died in April 2011, I thought life would resume the laundry and movie routine.  But, it didn’t.

All those “…and then…” events occurred:  A broken ankle.  A fall/sprawl (broken ankle betrayed me).  Trips to far-off places.  Christmas and birthdays.  Serious illness and surgery (for my husband’s mother).  Subsequent care following. 

Then...my daughter fell, broke bones in her foot, had surgery, was ‘laid up’ for two months.  Then…my other daughter had a baby boy!...And then we couldn't see this baby boy for almost a year.

More trips to far-off places.  And then…

Maybe I am whining about life in general.  Maybe I am like my wee grandson who cries when he needs something, and it is up to his parents to figure out what that is. They could just call me and I can take over.

If I could push a “pause” button, I would. Should I?  Would you?  

 

Crush of the White Mustang

Source

On the freeway driving through what I now call is the “Valley of the Slumbering Giants”*, my eyes wandered to  gleaming silver BMW, pale green Prius, white Honda--all passing us.

Thundering diesels roared as they pulled their loads up the hills.

John was driving, listening to Rush; he switched back to Roger Hedgecock, and then to music of the 60s.  So my eyes and thoughts were my own.

A big hulking diesel pulled up to my side and I noted that its load was open for all to see.  Its flatbed carried stacks and stacks of crushed cars, strapped to a ‘fare-thee-well’ with red straps.  How many high? I wondered.

I attempted to count the stacks but failed.

                                                                           

From top to bottom, I got lost at six.  The first six were predictable rusty clunkers, more than ready to head to the car cemeteries.

Source

The next few were horribly twisted results of accidents.  Did the people live?  Those made me shiver.

Then, at the very bottom of the first stack, was a white mustang with straight red stripe along the side.  Not a scratch on the sides, not a dent in the fenders—perfect, recently off the showroom floor or new car lot.  But it was now flattened.

Source

White mustang convertible, wow.  How you must have reached speeds, passed mundane cars, and laid down mile after mile…until this happened.

What had happened?  I didn't want to know. 

*I used to call it “the Valley of the Burial Mounds”.

The Price of Dependability

all photos courtesy of Bing.Com

Today I am typing with my right index finger taped to its best friend, the middle finger.  The MF is longer, feeling no pain, and has a nice fingernail.  I am certain that, if fingers had miniature brains, it would have been thinking smug thoughts until today.

The right index finger (RIF) has always carried the brunt of the hand’s work, and the nail has always broken easily.  RIF was always the one to volunteer for scraping off tape that would not release its cling to the wall.  RIF was also dependable in untying knots in shoelaces.  In fact, RIF and LIF were the CFO’s when it comes to all things “Hand”.

Today, RIF woke up and hurt like the dickens.  I do not know what happened, but somehow I think it got sprained during a very demanding week, during which the LIF and the RIF were putting in overtime in their CFO jobs.  But, then, these two digits were always over-achievers.  Between all my writing, piano playing, cooking, vegetable dicing, and plant maintenance, they never get a break.

Such a little boo-boo

A Joint Service Medal--no kidding.

The LIF had to have two surgeries in 2010, and it was a real trooper.  Never complained, followed restrictions put up with the pain—man, that digit should get a silver star.  After all, it was injured in the line of duty.  I was walking with my granddaughter, Sunshine, and LIF was instrumental in holding onto that sweet little three-year old hand.  When Sunshine and I tripped over something, LIF did all it could to pull Sunshine up, to keep her from slamming into the asphalt.  When it came my turn to hit the road (heh, heh), LIF led the rest of the hand in an effort to keep me from serious injury.  Together, the RIF and the LIF tried, but I was still knocked out cold.

Coming out of the foggy knock-out, it was obvious that the tendon of the first joint had “blown out”.  The LIF endured two surgeries in order to make it functional, although the first joint has a metal screw fusing it in place.  LIF feels the cold badly, but it is one strong soldier, so to speak.

They like each other now.

Meanwhile, RIF is taped to MF, snuggly.  The two are not getting along very well.  The number of typos is astronomical.  If RIF is still having pain in a few days, it will have to see my hand doctor, who is so very handsome.  I won’t mind the trip, and I think RIF will be fine with that.

This current injury happened in St. Louis, MO.  Reference "Stupid Things I have done:  #347" for scintillating details of this senseless injury.  Both fingers are doing nicely, thanks for your kind thoughts.