| The Left-Right Scar |
| Though not as visibly spectacular as some of the scars we saw in class, I have a small scar that is indelibly entrenched in my psyche. It was obtained in a very dull fashon one evening after dinner when I was four or five years old. My older sister was not the most healthy child and as a result she was required to follow a very strict, unusual diet. Me, being an ignorant little girl, thought it was a severe injustice that she should get to have food and drinks I was not invited to share. However, I was generally a very pliable child and would help my mom prepare my sister's special "treats." However, on one fated evening I was in a sour mood and my mom's request was met with a sour scowl and grumpy compliance. I was asked to retrieve a gallon jar of iced tea that I would not be allowed to drink. Grumbling under my breath the whole way to the refrigerator, I jerked open the door and grabbed the accursed tea. It was not an easy task to lift the glass jar full of liquid, but I managed very well. More infurriated than ever by the wet layer of condensation I was hugging, I spun away from the fridge kicking the door shut as I did so; that was an unwise move. As I exicuted my pirouette the heavy jar gained enough momentum to go flying from my arms. I was shocked! I couldn't let it fall! In a foolhardy effort to save myself from the innevitable punishment if I spilled, I dove for the falling jar. However, the jar hit the floor before I could catch it and having committed myself to following it my hands crashed down into the mass of shattered glass. In shock at my failure and dreading my mom's scolding voice I looked at my hands that were amazingly devoid of pain. My action produced a surprising response; my mom jumped out of her chair and ran over to grab my right wrist. There was no blood, so I had no idea why she was making the "hurt" face. Perplexed and smuggly pleased that I had escaped punishment, I looked at my wrist when my mom let go of it. My satisfaction was quickly replaced by horror with this action; it was like my wrist had been peeled! I screamed, because that is what you are supposed to do as a hurt little girl, while I looked at the curious blue veins, white tendons and pink muscle that the skin of my wrist had concealed seconds before. Blood was beginning to ooze out of the cut skin, but luckily none of the veins or arteries were severed by the glass and a trip to the hospital was avoided. To my discust, I was not spared the public humiliation of all of my friends seeing that I was hurt. My wrist and hand were wrapped in a large bandage to protect the wound from my regular plethera of hand slides across the playground. This was during a very formative time in my basic education when we were learning things like directions. In the resiliance and resourcefulness of youth I learned quickly that I am right-handed so I could get out of my writing tasks plus I could look for the injured hand to determine which hand was my right one then by process of elimination determine my left hand. It seemed harmless enough, but it proved to be a big crutch that I had to wean myself from. Even now, almost two decades later, I catch myself checking my wrist when I am given directions that include left and right as descriptors. So, that is the story of my left-right scar. |
| The Bad Day |
| The second Sunday of spring break definately qualifies as a bad day! The sun had not even risen when Muphy began his sabatage. My friend and I were driving home from spring break visists to our families in Texas and it was my turn to drive. I had been driving for about five hours when I decided to reach behind me to get my water bottle, since my friend was asleep and couldn't do it for me. Big Mistake! As I reached back I jerked the steering wheel to the left and we went over the rumble strips. Not realizing that we were off of the pavement in the median I tried to get us back on the road and by the time I did I had over-corrected. So, travelling 80 mph we began to zig-zag across the road eventually doing three 360 degree turns and flying backwards down the shoulder until we hit a sign that we broke and slid along effectively wiping the mirror from the passenger side of the car. Somehow the car worked well enough to drive it onto the paved shoulder where we could check the damage. The assesment was grim. Somehow damage had been done to every pannel on the car (front, back and both sides) and both driver's side tires were shredded. So, lacking a jack and a second spare tire, we needed a tow at about 1:00 am. My friend, who was immposibly calm about me trashing her car, used her Triple A card and 45 minutes later a tow truck arrived. The driver took one look at the car and said he couldn't touch it until Highway Patrol looked at it. So, he contacted Highway Patrol and we waited and waited and waited all the time listening to our colorful recuer's stories about wrecks, politics and women. Finally, 2 hours later the patrolman showed-up. He didn't even get out of his car! He told the tow truck driver to load-up the car and had me get into his car so I could get my first ever traffic ticket. Once on the road our driver told us that the rear axle was either bent or broken and no one could even look at it until Monday. We were stuck. The driver was kind enough to find us a motel room which my friend had to pay for because I'm broke and we slept until about 7. Then the phone calls began. After an hour of calls some of my friend's relatives in Bozeman came down to Southern Wyoming to get us. In the waiting time I learned from my parents that I would be kicked off of their insurance policy because I no longer had a clean driving record. In my friend's case he dad after hearing a description of the damage told her that the damage on the car was probably more than the car was worth and it would probably have to be scrapped-out. Other similar ramifications followed throughout the day (and are still chasing me) and I was glad to get home. The gladness was short lived because the roommate that I share a room with had walking-pneumonia and the only food in the house that didn't require major cooking had "DO NOT EAT" written on it. I think that was the end of the day, it seems to have dragged on. I hope that will be the worst day I have for a long time or forever. |
| Good-Bye Mr.Stubbs |
| When the discussion of Krishna turned to avoiding attachments with pets used as one of the examples, I realized that like Capitain Kirk in some old Star Trek episode, "I like my pain." I've had enough pets to recognize the value in attachments that will have to be broken at some point. The pet I will use in this example is Mr. Stubbs. He was a cat with a lightening shaped tail that we found in our wood pile as a kitten. We named him after one of our favorite movie animals at the time and he became an important part of our lives. He would help us play pranks on our "citified" friends, he would pick-up tricks faster that our dogs and he was always willing to play or cuddle. He was just all around lovable. However, he had a habit of following us wherever we went thus dispelling his fear of anything. One day we all got in the car and there was no one to call Mr. Stubbs away from it. We assumed he was where we had left him on a milk crate by the barn, but he had run to try and get in the car. Saddly the car was already moving and Mr. Stubbs ended with a hollow "thump." We were devestated! He just wanted a hug or some one to play with and now he was gone. We gave him a grave site in the forest behind the wood pile where we had found him and now we teach our cats to be afraid of cars. So, now with every mischevious giggle Mr. Stubbs is back again, eventhough we had to leave the farm where he rests. |