Freak Accident

I’m sure this has happened to others, but hopefully not to very many people. My husband ran me over with his truck. Has yours? This was before the bee stings, snakebite incident and the Rottweiller attack.

One hot and humid summer day Tony and I were removing a hideous eyesore from our yard: a handmade cinder block backyard grill. You’ve seen them before. They’re usually located in the south, on a country road, surrounded by grazing goats and a refrigerator setting on the front porch. Dripping with sweat we finished loading the blocks onto the bed of his truck. Tony got in the pick up with the AC roaring and the music blaring. I think his head was banging to Steppenwolf’s Born to be Wild. If you don’t know the words it begins: "Get your motor runnin’, Head out on the highway. Lookin’ for adventure…"

With the back end of the truck sagging, the right front tire got stuck on a rock.
Walking beside the truck, and pocessing super-human powers, I yelled, “I’ll move the rock!” I mistook his head bopping as a nod and bent down. For some reason I could not move the rock that was wedged under the tire of a truck piled high with concrete blocks. Then at the same time the tire caught, the truck inched forward and then the engine stalled. My hand was between a rock and a hard place. Literally.

I did not scream when I was stuck.

I could not move the pick up truck.

I would not, could not yell out in pain

My sheer stupidity was to blame.

I learned from the neighbors that voices carry, amplify and then echo across the lake. I did not want them to imagine what my husband was doing to me. Finally, Tony noticed I was missing from view. He rolled down the passenger’s side window and asked what I was doing down there.

He had to back up the truck, running my arm over again, to get me free. You know how cartoons characters have tire treads left on their body after getting run over? My arm looked exactly like that.

After we iced my arm, we anxiously awaited the ferry to arrive and take us across the river to what we thought was the nearest hospital. After the 20-minute ferry ride we drove the cinder blocks to the hospital, yet another 30 miles away. The doctor was ready to have Tony arrested after I told him my husband ran me over. Then he questioned Tony about taking so long to bring me to the ER.

Another happy ending…
No broken bones! I hope you are as fortunate if your husband accidently runs you over with his truck.
You do believe it was an accident, don't you?

My C-A-T

This is Tank. Like all my animals, I rescued Tank from a shelter.

If you are considering getting a pet you should visit one near you. You could drop off a blanket, a bed, kitty litter or toys while you’re at it. Sometimes the shelters are cautious of food, because the animals are used to a special diet, and you don’t want to upset their tummies.

If the shelter doesn’t have exactly the pet you want try petfinder.com. On the site you can specify the type of animal, breed, age, and gender. There are thousands of homeless animals out there and there is no need to spend big bucks from a breeder or pet shop, because the rescue centers are overflowing.

Tank was in a shelter for nine months. His previous owners couldn’t afford to feed him any more. When I saw him it was love at first sight. Love at first sight happens to me a lot. Most people want to adopt a tiny kitten, and Tank is two years old and a big boy.

It only took Tank a few weeks to adjust to his new home and family, including two dogs. At first Tank hissed at the dogs, then ran and hid. Mattie and Harleigh were persistent about making friends and won his trust. Sometimes Tank bats them in the head or plays toll gate on the stairway, but the dogs’ tails keep wagging. Tank did laugh at the dogs’ summer haircuts. It was embarrassing enough, but the groomer had put pink bows in their hair. To apologize for making fun of them Tank shared the lizard he caught with Harleigh. But I saw Tank smile when the lizard, who was playing 'possum, jumped and Harleigh skid-daddled!

Dear Neffew RexRsauruzz,

Uzzz oooz me a lettR. 
Meez  likz  2  getz  mailz.
Will uzz rit? 
sirkel yez or noz.
luvz,
TankRsauruzz

Summer Hair Cuts

Mattie and Harleigh Markopooch

Before

After

Ha-ha!

Boots

I’ve changed from red patent leather shoes to cowboy boots. I wear my western boots year round. In all, I have ten pairs.
I have, I would, I could, wear them anywhere.

 Remember the song from Sesame Street? “One of these things is not like the others…” You’re right! The polka dot boots do not belong. But those ugly rubber boots have had the most use and are a necessity. (Not that the cowboy boots are not.)

Last year, on July 9th to be most precise, I ventured out at dusk to retrieve a shovel. A friend had given me some plants, and even though we had guests staying with us for the weekend, I had to plant them right that minute. As I moved the wheelbarrow I felt a sting on the top of my flip-flopped foot. At that time, I thought I had stepped in yet another ground beehive. A few weeks earlier I was stung 19 times by a swarm of angry bees. I prepared myself for more stings, but I actually felt fortunate to be stung only once. When I looked down a snake was coiled at my feet. I stared at it, memorizing its markings, knowing that I should be able to identify the snake just in case it was poisonous.

When my feet became unglued I went back in the house and announced that a snake bit me. Our guests and my husband flew into action. Helen had a tourniquet tied around my ankle. Tony dashed through the garage grabbing an ax on the way; Charlie grabbed a broom. I calmly explained the snake’s GPS and joked that Charlie was going to sweep the snake to death.

My foot began to swell. Immediately. Immensely. My toes were the size of sausages by the time we got to Urgent Care. The doctor told Tony to take me to the Emergency Room. (We live about 25 miles from the nearest hospital.) By the time we arrived at the ER my leg, from the tips of my toes to my hip, was twice its normal size.

I identified the snake from the poster conveniently hung outside a treatment room as a Copperhead. FYI – They administer anti-venom only as a last resort. The side affects are as dangerous as the bite. After 9 hours of antibiotics, painkillers and monitoring I was sent home when the swelling finally stopped. The good news: I didn’t die. The bad news: I was in La-la Land for two weeks. Yeah, I saw you there. I was the lady with a fat chick’s leg. I was in pain and had to use crutches for about three weeks. And I was terrified to go outside for the rest of the summer.

My husband bought me those useful ugly rubber boots for protection against snakes.

He’s such a patient man and put up with my crazy ways and my whimsical attire for the past 33 years. But do you know he wouldn’t let me wear those polka dot boots to lunch at Hardee’s?

I do venture outside again, because I love to dig in the dirt. But you can be sure I wear my ugly polka dot boots.

Closet Cleaning

From first grade until I graduated from high school I had to wear a uniform. A green jumper, a white blouse and knee socks from first to sixth grade. Since I remained the same size for those six years my jumper was shiny and thread bare. In seventh and eighth grade the girls donned a green plaid skirt instead of the jumper. In high school I wore blue plaid. Not very fashionable but it eliminated the dilemma of what outfit to wear five days a week. The only item not mandatory was shoes. Thus my obsession with shoes grew. What’s your excuse?

Remember in the 1950s babies were born with those stiff white high top shoes? Well in the 1960s every female child wore orthopedic Buster Brown T-strap shoes. For some reason, a tantrum most likely, my mother purchased red patent leather shoes for me. Now if you haven’t guessed I attended Catholic schools taught by nuns. Black patent leather shoes were forbidden. You know, the boys would see your underwear in their shiny reflection. Then they would be tempted by impure thoughts and go straight to Hell. Red? Not so much. The boys would spend some time in Purgatory.

I loved my festive fiery footwear with my green uniform. I looked like Christmas every day. And they had a really wonderful feature. I could buckle the strap over my ankle or the strap could swing back around your heel, so they would convert to slip-on pumps. My shoes were the only unique item in my wardrobe during elementary school and they made me feel special.

Now I have closets full of clothing and shoes. You will not find one thing plaid on the racks. But I still own a pair of red patent leather shoes that refused to go in the bag for Good Will.

Facebook

I’m not a Facebook fan, but last July my daughter invited me to view her birthday pictures. I signed up and since then have visited the site a couple dozen times. Due to my ignorance, inexperience, lack of techie skills I mistakenly requested everyone in my address book to be my friend. Oops.


Now I know what my accountant, former boss, co-workers, students, and my niece, a college freshman, think, do and say. It isn’t pretty! It’s too much information. OMG! I don’t want to know.

I have since “hid” all but my daughters and a few chosen friends. I have received friend requests from people I have briefly encountered or haven’t heard from or seen in years. I ignore people who lived on my street or worked down the hall from me and never talked to me then. Why do they want to be my friend now? Am I a snob? I know the point of Facebook is to find friends, but if you really have not been in contact with them, are they really your friends? Do you want to know that their kid squirted spinach out of their nose or what your niece and her boyfriend did last weekend?

Surprise! My very first playmate from kindergarten, the year was 1960, contacted me this week on Facebook I would have recognized those big blue eyes and infectious smile anywhere. She always looked like a birthday party waiting to happen. I appreciated knowing that she thought of me often and wondered about my journey through life.

We had been friends and in the same class together from kindergarten through eighth grade in a small private school. We had sleepovers, traded clothes, whispered about boys, told secrets and shared a love of sand between our toes.

We drifted apart in high school. She had a boyfriend and I was a nerd. I never saw her again after graduation. She married her high school sweetheart and had four children and is a grandmother now.
And she still looks like a birthday party.

It’s good to see you again, Debbi.                    

Thanks Facebook.

Love at Every Sight

Do you believe in love at first sight? I do. It happened to me 33 years ago. I fell in love with the P.E. teacher on the first day of my grown-up career, teaching third grade students, at an elementary school in Virginia Beach, Virginia.
I interviewed, accepted a job, moved from the bitter cold upstate New York area and started work within a five-day period. I was temporarily camping out with an estranged cousin and his family because I knew not a soul in Virginia Beach. His two daughters thought this was a fantastic living arrangement and immediately informed me about the “hot” teacher at their school. What did a ten and an eleven year old know about hot guys? Soon, with active imaginations they were conniving about us dating, kissing, (Eeeew!!!) and falling in love.

Out of forty-two elementary schools in the system I was hired to teach at the school my cousins attended. On my first day of work I had butterflies in my stomach, as my heart raced with excitement to have landed a job a month after graduating from college. I had no doubts, regrets, nor second thoughts about my decision to work and live so far from the safety of my familiar world. Life couldn’t get any better. Or could it? Overflowing with happiness I noticed someone very interesting sauntering down the hallway.

Judging by the running suit and the whistle around his neck I knew that my preadolescent cousins recognized excellence. It took me two nano-seconds to fall in love. Why so long? I’m nearsighted!

He, on the other the hand, took two weeks before he noticed me jumping rope with my students on the playground and acquired the courage to ask me on a date. Of course, I readily accepted, clumsily spilling my drink with shaking hands. He was even more gorgeous up close. I had my cousin call the school to inquire his first name so I didn’t have to call him “Mr. PE Teacher” that evening.

We dated. We kissed. We fell in love.
We married. We raised two children. We grew old together.
And my heart still does somersaults when I see him and I fall in love all over again.
Don’t you love happy endings?

Quite A Lot of Mountians

If you don’t think that a lake and 1/100 of 100-Acre Woods are quite a lot, I also have mountains to queen over. We bought a little, and I mean tiny, petite, itty bitty, teeny, minute, not quite minuscule, condo just outside of Blowing Rock, NC in 2007. Friends invited us to their little bigger condo for a visit and we fell in love with the area. Have you visited Blowing Rock? It’s a quaint little town, down the holler from Boone where Appalachian State University lives. Go Apps! They, whoever made this up, say our condo has a million dollar view. What do you think?

We run away to the mountains to escape the humidity in the summer months. In the fall we attend the ASU football games even if it is raining and subzero degrees. Snow blanketing the trees and mountain tops in the winter is a breathtaking sight. But sometimes, like last December 25th, we were iced in with no electricity and had to delay Christmas with our family in Charlotte. It’s cold in them there hills!

We are blessed to have the best in North Carolina: our lake and woods on the east coast and the mountains in the western part of the state. And in case you don’t know we also have two daughters Ashley and Tessa, a son Andrew (raised by his biological parents, but I still claim him because they did a great job) and a 5-month-old grandson Alekzander in North Carolina. What else could a queen want?

Queen of Quite A Lot

Here I am! Queen of Quite A Lot
Once upon a time I was a princess. It started at the time of my birth.

49 years later my boyfriend/husband/best friend/Saint Anthony, aka St. Tony, gourmet chef, master carpenter, and teaching partner retired after 31 years. Three years before I could retire. BOO HOO! Because he was raised Catholic like me, his middle name is also Guilt. I would set the alarm as usual; beat the clock for interrupting my sleep, dress for success, and whine for a small portion of the day. Only from 8:30-4:00. ”Why do I have to go to work if you don’t?" At 4:15 I would stumble back through the door of our home to a chilled glass of wine awaiting my arrival. We’d chat on the porch as savory scents wafted through the screen door to tease my taste buds.

Thus Queen of Quite A Lot was morphed. Gradually over three more school years the crown became embedded in my skull. I retired in 2007 and we moved from Virginia to North Carolina. I wore the crown proudly.


Well here is a small portion of my quite alot.

This is my back yard, and my side yards. Wait I know this: It’s a peninsula! Peaceful, yes, except during bullfrog mating season. We also have Canadian Geese that fly in every morning and gracefully glide on the golden pond. Tony or I call out, “The geese are home.” It’s not unusual to spot a herd of deer swimming across the lake, or watch our hopeful pound puppies tear though the woods in hopes of catching that rascally rabbit, rabid raccoon or perhaps some beavers who have gnawed down our trees for their lodge.

We have a little paradise here including my Hundred Acre Woods, which is only 1/100 of 100 acres. Come explore with me and play. It will be fun!