'Cause he's real good at what he does...

Had the good fortune to have an old friend in town last week.  It wasn’t a social call, but not every moment was work, either.  Dan was in from Connecticut to give a poetry reading at the library and to conduct workshops at some of the local high schools.  He did everything he came into town to do, and made quite a name for himself as he did.  I believe that he may even be an honorary citizen of Gadsden now, for all his local-high-school-football-score-knowin,’ Gone-with-the-Wind-exhibit-tournin,’ and fried-chicken-eatin’ ways.  That’s all fine and good, but the real reasons for him being an honorary Gadsdenite is because he gave one hell of a reading at the library, and turned about a hundred and twenty students into poets.  I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of a Gadsden chapter of the Daniel Donaghy Club, and that they were working on an epic poem about his exploits along the banks of the Coosa.  I could see it rivaling the story of Emma Sansom or Noccalula…

During one of the high school workshops, Dan brainstormed with the students and asked them to write two narrative portrait poems, based upon certain personal things, following certain guidelines. He encouraged me and my friends (a coworker, who was sitting in on the exercise, and the student’s teacher) to participate as well.

The students worked.  They worked with eyes looking up to the ceiling while thinking.  They worked with arms curled around their papers (to shield from prying eyes) when writing.  They seemed unaffected by the assignment.  Or less affected by the assignment than were the adults.

For us adults (and I’m basing my assessment upon the fact that, when I glanced over at my coworker friend and at my teacher friend, they gave me the same anguished look that I imagine was on my own face), the assignment was like what I would imagine a person’s first session of therapy to be like.  I didn’t know where to begin.  And once I started writing, oh, my gosh, I went and made the poems too personal, too therapeutic, too not-for-reading-to-a-group-of-high-school-students-with-whom-I-conduct-business-with-some-of-their-parents.  I just prayed to not be called upon to read my poems out loud, which was fitting…because I’m sure that I would’ve felt the same way, had I been seventeen, and part of the student body that day. 

So, with the understanding that I am not a writer or poet (although my parents may think differently because they are the people who bankrolled my ballet career, my painting career, my sewing career, which means I am probably still a brilliant ballerina/sartorialist/painter in their eyes.  In actuality, I'm just a sometimes teacher of "Ballet for the Uncoordinated," a weekend sewer of stuffed animals, and a painter who can only do the kind of painting that is considered manual labor.), I present my two poems.  As you will see, they are linked, and meant to be read together:

Dinner at Elizabeth Padgett’s Trailer, Waynesburg, KY, Summer 1982

A housedressed Gran at the stove,

scrape, scrape, scraping a wooden spoon along the bottom of the skillet.

A knock at the trailer door.

Sky blotted out by Uncle Roder’s dark form.

Smell of red-eye gravy and his hat is missing.

I open the door to his “I done her up right this time.”

This, over the sound of dinner being made.

Aunt Sarah & Uncle Roder’s Farm, Waynesburg, KY Summer 1982

Corn, rows a body could get lost in, leading to a bleached-grey barn.

Rustling of stalks, mom’s footfalls in front of me, and Gran stumbling out of the barn, “The son of a bitch’s killed her!”

A dog’s mournful wail, for hunger, not for this loss.

Me, blinking hard, an impossibly blue sky, even more impossible scene unfolding.

Nose full of animal, both body and manure.

Aunt Sarah, Uncle Roder, Gran, mom and me,

A straight-line equation equaling nothing good can come of this

On a farm in Waynesburg, KY during the summer of 1982.

What did I tell you?  Not fit for certain company, right?  Well, they are what they are.  And I have Dan to thank for dragging them out of me.

Soon, I’ll be posting the intro I gave for Dan’s reading at the library.  It’s not quite a review of his work, but it is pretty darn close, in my eyes.  And I want folks to get out there and read his work.  'Cause he's real good at what he does.

What big eyes you have...

I enjoy sewing.  Like yard work, it relaxes me.  But, other than the usual mending or hemming (I’m a short, wee lassie), I haven’t been able to sew much in the last ten years of so.  I either didn’t have the room for my sewing machine to be out, which means sewing was never on my mind (outta sight, outta mind), or I just didn’t have the inspiration to sew (I like to sew as a project, or as a gift). 

There have been an explosion of children in my and Eric’s life.  Our Catoe friends boast three younguns, with plans for at least one more.  IT Guy and his wife are expecting a little boy Sasquach soon.  Our friends and neighbors down the street are expecting a boy, too.  And there are chirren running all ‘round this sweet neighborhood we live in.  I want to give gifts when births and birthdays happen, but the pocketbook is a little tight right now.  So, I’ve taken up sewing again.  Fabric comes in many inexpensive forms:  vibrant linen thrift store clothing, a retired shower curtain, markdown fabrics at Walmart.  I have managed to scavenge some really beautiful cloth and buttons from lots of different sources.  If it still has life in it, it is game to be upcycled into something else. 

I first tried to make a stuffed animal when I was about eight years old.  A friend of the family had recently had a baby, and I wanted to make the baby a stuffed dolphin.  My Gran helped me (Gran was a master at making Red Riding Hood flip dolls…you know, the ones with a granny and a wolf hiding under Red Riding Hood’s skirt?).  She helped me sketch a picture of a dolphin onto a brown grocery bag, found some leftover grey fabric from wolf-making, and set me to work pinning, sewing and stuffing (with the end of a wooden spoon) what turned out to be a pretty nice little dolphin, whose curved body fit perfectly into the hand of the baby. 

Now, I’ve not made too many stuffed animals since then.  Most of my sewing has been reserved for alterations, decorative bags, pillows, curtains and the like.  So, when I decided to try my hand at making a stuffed bunny, I’m not sure that I was mentally prepared…I drew a lopsided, misshapen rabbit onto a piece of scrap paper.  I pinned it and cut it from a retired pair of beloved palazzo pants.  I embroidered eyes, nose, mouth and tail.  And I sewed and stuffed the little rascal.  Yes, it required that I use the end of a wooden spoon to get the stuffing into all the ears, arms and legs.  The end result was a bunny worthy of a Tim Burton film.  All it needed were fangs and dripping blood…it was a frightening looking thing.  But when I took it over to give to little Cash Catoe for his birthday, the other Catoe children wanted to hold it immediately.  Now, I know the reason why they all wanted to hold it was less for its Tim Burton charm and high quality stitching, and more because there was only one bunny (it is a law that when there is only one item and three children, there is bound to be dearth and feigned despair).  But then the other Catoe children requested a stuffed animal of their own.  Zoe requested pink (probably because it is less about the shape and more about the color for her).  Ben requested a bison (probably because Eric and I are affectionately thought of by Ben as large shaggy, lumbering ungulates…well, more so because before Eric’s accident, we played bison with him and his siblings).

So, I had my orders, and I took them seriously.  Something in pink for Zoe.  Something in bison for Ben.  

I associate owls with Zoe because her mommy and daddy had an owl pillow waiting for her on her bed when she came home from China.  Stuffed owls shouldn’t be too hard to make, so I began looking for simple patterns on the internet.  And I found the most adorable one from the wonderful blogger Toad’s Treasures.  Toad, who is a mommy, photographer, artist, among many other things, offered the cutest owl pattern for free on her blogsite.  She also offers the pattern, plus an instructional booklet through her Etsy Shoppe for a very reasonable price.  I think she’s the bee’s knees for sharing her owl pattern.  And for posting a tutorial on owl construction on her website.  I made two owls Friday night, while Eric worked late.  I thought they were cute.  The pink one is for Zoe.  The blue one is for a forthcoming male offspring of a friend.  Now, I just have to get cracking on that bison…

Gulf Water Under the Bridge

A couple of years ago I blogged briefly about where I was when 9/11 happened.  It was a post that I named after one of my favorite songs, September Song.  I first heard September Song as a child.  My sister and I would spend hours dressing up in mom’s clothes and listening to mom and dad’s record albums.  The album which contained September Song was entitled Music for Lovers and had a photograph of a suave adult couple having an intimate dinner at a crystal-laden table by candle light on it.  The woman was half-facing the camera (cause she was leaning forward and looking deep into the eyes of her black-suited companion) and was wearing a Dior-like 40s dress.   She had glossy, Veronica Lake hair, and I wanted to be her.  The melody of September Song made me sad for no reason, so I equated the entire Music for Lovers album as melancholy, and I exhibited the appropriate amount of melancholy while acting out the album cover art in one of my mom’s fancy dresses…

Sorry, I digress. Back to my story.

9/11 happened while I was living in the Capital Hill neighborhood of Denver.  My sister and brother-in-law (then, boyfriend) were visiting.  After the planes and fire and rubble and dust of the morning, September Song kept coming to mind the rest of the afternoon, thus the title of that blog in 2009.  But the song Concrete and Clay by Unit 4+2 also came to mind (a 1965 Brittish hit; see the Rushmore film soundtrack).  It is a catchy, upbeat tune about love.  Nothing sad about that.  But the chorus, taken out of context and plunked into the midst of 9/11, lends a different feeling (the video is also a little eerie in the fact that the band sings and plays the tune from what appears to be a building construction site...a site that is reminiscent of what Ground Zero would look like after much of the rubble of the Twin Towers was cleared away):

"The sidewalks in the street, the concrete and the clay
Beneath my feet begins to crumble, but love will never die
Because we'll see the mountains tumble, before we say goodbye"

Really?  I don’t know what to say.  So, I’ll leave it at that.

There have been a number of 9/11 anniversaries that have come and gone, punctuated for me by a reflection on those whose lives were lost (many), and those whose lives were changed forever (all of us). But this anniversary of 9/11 was more significant to me.  Not only was it the tenth anniversary of the World Trade Center attacks, but also my family had planned a vacation at the coast without realizing that the anniversary would fall during our time with each other.  There were two things about this vacation that made the significant-ness more…well, significant:  1) my sister had secured a condo for all of us in Ft. Walton Beach, FL, which is where we used to spend our summers together at the Greenwood Inn as a family (owned at the time by a couple from Gadsden); and 2)  Vicki, Tony and I were all together again on 9/11, which was something that had not happened since THE 9/11. 

Now, a lot of water (both literal and figurative) has flowed under the proverbial bridge in the twenty-four-odd years since we vacationed as a family in Florida.  Just to mention the most obvious:  1) We have a new addition to our family, my nephew Alex.  He is a delightful imp.  2) My sister, mom and dad have all three faced some serious, life-threatening illnesses (multiple times) since our last visit to the area.  I thank the good Lord every day that they have persevered.  3) And the Greenwood Inn was destroyed many years ago during one of the famous hurricanes (maybe Ivan), and the land upon which it stood (along with the adjacent land that the hotel my friend’s parents owned) has been thankfully preserved from commercialism by virtue of being turned into a state beach park. It was a blessing to be able to spend a couple of days eating and frolicking with people I love so much, at a beach that holds so many childhood memories.  And to be able to share this with my partner Eric…well, it just meant more to me than I can ever describe.  It was a time of reflection and communion.

Some feelings from you...

Few people know that at one time in my life I bore a striking resemblance to Warren Zevon.  I do not lie when I say this (if you doubt me, compare my photo to his, here).  I say this with certainty and with pride.  I really like Warren Zevon, so it doesn’t bother me that I looked like him when I was a pre-teen.  It may have bothered me at the time this photo was taken, but it doesn't now.  I mean, we all have to recognize that we went through awkward stages before we figured out how to handle our skin, hair, eyes, etc., right?  Well, I’m here today, admitting that Mr. Zevon and I could’ve shared the same genes…or at least the same sense of style.  I do sometimes kinda wish that I had looked more like David Bowie, though...at least he, on occasion, looked like a girl.

More embarrassing photos and stories to come...yes, I went through a VERY high maintenance stage...

Glad you called. I was just about to pack up the rest of the house…

 “Oh, yeah.  See that?  That’s not supposed to be sticking up that way (pointing to the jagged edge of clavicle that was darn near poking its way out of the skin).  And this (mashing on the scapula), this feels real crunchy.  That’s definitely broke, too.  We’ll have to get an MRI, just as soon as we get that leg closed up.” 

These are not words that you want to hear being strung into sentences and coming out of the mouth of the attending ER doctor who is examining your busted up mate.  But there they were, being said while the nurses took vitals and started an IV. 

Eric’s jaw was set in such a way that indicated he was in an extreme amount of pain (it would take weeks of healing and lots of pain meds for that jaw to come unclenched), but he managed to crack a few jokes, ask about his bike (without batting an eyelash, I lied and told him that his bike was fine) and explain that no, he had not been riding a motorcycle, he had been riding a bicycle (we had to explain this over and over again to the various nurses and orderlies who bustled in an out).  Evidently these types of injuries are normally reserved for folks who lay down their choppers or hogs.

What occurred then was a flurry of hospital staff shift changes, a parking lot passing-off of Eric’s injured bike to Kris Catoe (who left the well-oiled morning routine that he and Laura have of getting three precocious children ready for daycare …thank the Lord for the Catoes), x-rays showing multiple broken bones (clavicle, rib and scapula…they missed the cracked humerus, which would be discovered the next day at the orthopedist’s office), visits from well-wishers, whispers of being sent to Huntsville to see a specialist (should the scapula be as badly broken as they thought it might be) and orders for an MRI…but only after the gaping and seeping wound of Eric’s shin was stitched up.

How do you mend a piece of fabric that has torn into a V-shape?  You put an anchor stitch in the middle to hold the two pieces back together, and work from each outside edge into the middle, towards the anchor stitch.  That is basically what the doctor did to Eric’s wound, starting with an anchor stitch in the middle, then working his way from the outside edges in.  He used a couple of different stitches in his suturing, one which I recognized as a stitch that I have used in the past to close up the misshapen stuffed animals I’ve been known to make…the blanket stitch.  The other stitch was one that I couldn’t recall, even after looking up on the Internet stitches used to close wounds. Surprisingly, during this Internet search of stitches, I did discover one called the Smead-Jones/Far and Near, which sounded to me more like a long lost Tolkien novel than a type of suture. 

Once stitched, Eric was bundled off to get an MRI…and then…waiting…and waiting for the doctor to come and discuss the results of the MRI. 

With the uncertainty of the situation, and the possibility of Eric being transported to Huntsville (pending MRI results), I asked the nurse if she thought I would have time to run home to put some real clothes on and pack a bag for Eric.  She said that yes, I would have plenty of time before the doctor came back.  I gave the nurse my cell number (just in case), grabbed Eric’s bag of belongings, said an anxious goodbye to my broken cyclist and headed home in lunch-hour traffic on Meighan Boulevard.  While I drove, I planned every move that I would make in the house...how I would make a sweeping circle while grabbing everything we could possibly need in the next couple of days.  Cell phone chargers, underwear, toothbrushes, deodorant, granola, insurance card, wallet…

I hit the front door running, and within five minutes had exactly half of the house packed up and ready to go.  About that time, my cell phone rang.  It wasn’t a number I recognized and my experience of answering a call from an unknown number earlier just that morning made me brace myself as I answered.  It was the ER nurse. 

ER Nurse:  The doctor just came in.  They’re getting ready to release him.

Me:  Really?  No transfer to Huntsville?

ER Nurse:  No.  He’ll have to make an appointment to see an orthopedist, but he’s about to be released from here.  You’ll want to bring him some clothes to wear.

Me:  I will.  No problem.  I’m glad you called.  I was just about to pack up the rest of the house.

ER Nurse:  Yes, that’s what I was afraid you’d be doing. I was trying to catch you before you did.

Me:  Well, I appreciate that.  I’ll be back up there in about twenty minutes…

Eric was dismissed with a signing of papers, a putting on of his clothes (I paid very close attention to how to get a shirt on him), and a fresh dose of pain killers (these I had to ask specifically for…I told them that he was already in pain, and that they needed to buy me some time so that I could get him home and then go out for his prescriptions…thankfully they agreed before I had to pitch a full-blown conniption fit).  Yet again, he was almost impossible to get into the car.  And yet again, he was almost impossible to get back out of the car once we arrived home.  And little did we know that it would be almost three weeks before he would be able to sit comfortably, or even get a decent night’s sleep.  Glad we didn’t know all that up front.

So, with lots of help from friends bringing home cooked meals, groceries, baked goods, Thai food…friends picking Eric up and dropping him off…lots of prayers and lots of well wishes, we’ve made it through the hardest part.  Recovery has been comical while it has been hard.  We laugh when we can, and just do our best to get through one day at a time.  But short of the injuries themselves, I think the part that has hurt Eric the most is the loss of a cyclocross season, a cyclocross season that he was putting a lot of training time into.  Thankfully, the season lasts into the winter months of 2012, plenty of time for Eric to be back on the bike and ready to hit the mud.  We’ll just keep moving towards that goal.  And we’ll try to remember the words of Hemingway, “The world breaks us all. Afterward, some are stronger at the broken places.”

Chewiest Gluten-free Granola Bars

Back in 2008, a glutened-up version of this recipe acted as an urban family matchmaker of sorts for me.  At the time, I was asked by my friend Cyndi to send out a recipe as part of an email recipe-exchange.  I chose to send out my Chewiest Granola Bars recipe because it had served me so well over the years, and I thought that everyone would love it.  I believe that only two people on that list ever acknowledged the recipe, the original person who started the recipe-exchange (the pun-tastic Gadsden Times editor and writer, Cyndi Nelson), and Laura Catoe.  I knew who Laura was (we had mutual friends, and I was familiar with her graphic design work, as well as her writing, for the Gadsden Times); didn't know her personally.  But, once the recipe ended up in her inbox, planets began to align in the perfect order for us to meet and become friends.  There have been many shared recipes and many shared meals that have transpired since our first meeting (and Laura even dedicated a post to them once, which she updated when I discovered my gluten-free status), so I feel like I owe a debt of gratitude to the magic of the granola bars...

Here is the recipe, as I make them now, with a bit more gluten-free detail.  They are super easy to make:

Chewiest Granola Bars
(I recommend organic ingredients, when possible)

1c Brown Sugar
½ c Light corn syrup  or honey (I usually use honey)
½ c Butter, room temp.
2/3 c Peanut butter
2 ts Vanilla extract
½ c Sunflower seeds
1 1/2 c Bob's Red Mill Oats (or store brand oats, if you are not gluten-intolerant)
1 1/2 c Puffed Rice Cereal (I use .59 cent Walmart brand)
½ c Coconut, grated
1/3 c Ground Flax Seed (or Wheat germ, if you are not gluten-intolerant)
½ c Dried Fruit (raisins, cherries, etc.)
1c Nestle Semi-sweet Chocolate Chips (they are gluten-free)
1c Toasted Nuts (I use half pecans, half walnuts)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Coat inside of 9X12 glass baking dish with veg. oil.  In large bowl, combine br. sugar, corn syrup, butter, peanut butter, and vanilla-stir well to the consistency of a paste.  Stir in remaining ingredients and work the mixture so that several large clumps adhere together.  Using fingers, press the mixture into baking dish (be sure to mash pretty hard, or you will end up with bars that fall apart, which is not so bad, either, because they are still edible).  Bake at 350 for 18-20 min.  until golden brown.  Allow to cool completely before cutting into bars.  I wrap each individually, and haven't missed store bought granola since I first discovered and tweaked this recipe.  They freeze well, too.

Because I’m About to Break the Law

I got a phone call on the morning of July 28th at 5:52AM from a phone number I didn’t recognize.

“Hey, it’s me, Eric Wright.”

“Hey, babe, what’s up?”

“I’ve crashed the bike and I need you to come pick me up.  I’m up in Country Club.”

“Is this your phone?”  I asked, knowing that he had accidentally left his phone at the office the night before, but I never think properly before coffee.

“No, I flagged someone down and they let me use their phone.”  Nothing in his voice sounded unusual.

Eric then told me approximately where he was in Country Club, and I told him I’d be right there.  I left the house in my bedtime clothes and flip flops, left lights on in the kitchen and living room, because I figured I’d be back quick.   At least I had the forethought to take Eric’s car with the bike rack on it.  I figured the bike was banged up, and that was the reason why he couldn’t ride it back to the house.

When I came up the first major hill in Country Club (a hill that is also a tight curve), I saw Eric sitting on the shoulder of the road, right in the bend of the curve.  His bike was about twenty or thirty feet from him, lying among the pine trees and poison ivy of someone’s back yard.  He smiled weakly at me as I pulled into the nearest driveway, which was across the street, behind him.  He was holding his right leg at the shin, bloody handkerchief covering a cut that was bleeding enough to have soaked his sock.  He remained sitting stiffly in place, no pivoting of the body or head, as I got out of the car and approached him.  I don’t remember who spoke first or which questions were asked in what order, but I seem to recall an exchange that went something like this:

Me:  “Where’re you hurt?”

Eric:  “My left side hurts.  I think I broke my collarbone.”

Me:  “Well, we need to get you to the emergency room.”

Eric:  “Yeah, that would be good.  I think I gashed my leg pretty bad…”

Me:  “Let me take a look.” (One glimpse revealed a cut that my kinfolk would’ve remarked upon with “Well, he done laid that leg open to the bone.”).   “Yep, that’s gonna need some stitches.”

At this point, Eric asked me to move the car closer because…well, he just couldn’t really move too well.  So I pulled the car into the road, turned on the hazard lights and prayed that no one would be coming down through there too fast…then I went about the task of getting Eric off the side of the road and into the car.  The road shoulder upon which he sat was pretty steep, with loose gravel and patches of poison ivy here and there.  I could’ve tried to help him up by his right arm, but that would’ve meant balancing myself with one foot up on the pavement and one foot down in the gravel.  I might slip and take Eric with me.  So, I did what I thought was best at that moment.  I faced Eric, planted my feet on either side of him, squatted in a most un-lady-like plié, hugged my arms around his waist and lifted him to a standing position with my legs.  Still holding as tight as I dared, I talked Eric through taking two steps backwards so that his rear was within sitting distance of the passenger seat.  Two cars arrived from opposite directions just as I began performing what may have been the most difficult procedure of the day:  folding my very-much-in-pain-and-very-much-in-shock-six-foot-one mate into a sedan that all of a sudden seemed about the size of a Volkswagon Beetle.  One driver called out to me that I could use her phone if I needed it.  I said thanks, but I had it under control…that I was taking him to the emergency room…if I could just get all of him in the car…

If it had not been such a distressing situation, it would’ve been comical. Eric seemed to be made of elbows and knees that didn’t want to bend, and limbs that I was corrugating to fit under the glove compartment.  Quickly (although at the time it seemed impossibly slow), I coached and coaxed and tucked limbs until a complete Eric sat uncomfortably inside the car.  How he remained composed and cooperative as we went through these motions, I’ll never know.  All I can say is that there are times when shock is a blessing.  This was one of those times.

Now, even though I was in unknown injury territory, I was running on adrenaline and instinct.  I knew that Eric was hurt, but I felt like he was going to be fine.  My attitude was very calm until something happened that almost made my wheels come off.   When I asked Eric if he wanted me to retrieve his bike, his response was something akin to “I don’t care.”  Fear gripped me.  The hair on the back of my neck may have even stood up. Eric’s bike meant the world to him.  If he didn’t care about the bike, then something must be terribly wrong with Eric.  I had to act, and I had to act quickly.  I sprinted through the poison ivy, grabbed the disabled bike (wheels would not turn), and secured it best as I could to the bike rack.  Performing a three-point turn at record speed (thankfully, Eric’s car executes this maneuver far smoother than my car does, otherwise he would’ve been in much greater pain than he was), I exited Country Club and made my way down Rainbow Drive.  Every bump elicited either a sharp withdrawing of breath or a hiss from Eric.  All I could do was apologize in advance for the bumps I knew were coming, or apologize for the ones I had just hit.  As we came up to the red light by Applebee’s, Eric mentioned that I still had the hazard lights on, and that I could probably turn them off now.  My response was to look for any potential vehicular hindrances and say, “Well, no, I’m gonna leave them on, because I’m about to break the law.”  We went on through the red light and got on the bypass that spits traffic out on the East side of town, the side of town where the hospital is located.

What with all of the multiple surgeries my sister, dad and mom have had at that hospital, I know every bump between here and there.  And there are a lot of bumps.  I couldn’t even look at Eric the entire stretch of Meighan Blvd. between Hood Ave. and the hospital cutoff.  It must’ve been a nightmare.  The only blessing about it was the fact that it was so early in the day, there was hardly any traffic to slow us down.  So, we arrived at the emergency room relatively quickly, even if one of us was worse for wear.  The only issue that I now had to face was how to get Eric out of the car that I had just ten minutes ago pleated him into.  Could he walk?  No.  I ran in for a wheelchair.  Again, how to get him out of the car?  By this point, Eric’s entire body seemed to be giving into the trauma, so great was his pain.  I knew I would not be able to wrangle him out of the car and into a wheelchair on my own, so I ran back in and asked the nurse to find an orderly to help me with “a cycling accident victim with possible broken bones” (I wanted to sound as if I knew what I was talking about, and that they better get someone to help me, stat.  Stat, I say!).   An orderly who was blessed with both a calming demeanor and the stature of a hay-bale-throwing farmhand came to save Eric from my final attempt at turning him into an origami version of himself.  I’ve never felt relief so sweet as that I felt when Eric was rolled into the ER…

It is here that I will suspend my storytelling.  Eric has begun his account of the accident on his website, so it seems appropriate to stop at the same spot where he did.  But, I do have one more thing to add before I go:  Eric’s Garmin was still tracking speed while I was driving to the hospital that day.  According to the stats, I never went over 55 miles per hour the entire time I was driving, including the time when I ran the red light.  So, I may have been breaking the law, but I was doing it in a cautious and reserved way.  


Update:  Part Deux of this story may be found here.