After the Fall

 

The View from my chair

This is my world.

Yep, since Wednesday, January 15, I've been on crutches. I spend a lot of time sitting in a recliner in the great room. 

That big painting on the west wall is an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico (acrylic on canvas). It is one of my brother Matt's last paintings after he retired from captaining a crew boat. Following his death last summer, I brought it to my home from his home near the Texas gulf coast. 

He also painted the one on the north wall (to the right). In the late 1960s while he was studying at Central State College (now the University of Central Oklahoma) a classroom assignment was to paint something in the style of a famous artist. Here it is, oil on canvas, titled "Van Gogh Oil, Well." (said with a pause after "oil." He had a great sense of humor.) 

Above the TV you can see my husband's decorative metal work of an Eagle soaring above the Rocky Mountains.

                             

And a bookshelf with some of my treasures and books -- teapots I've been gifted over the years, a salt and pepper set by my son John Hill the potter, Mardi Gras memorabilia, and grandbabies' toys. There behind me on the east wall is Matt's "Logan County Unicorn" (acrylic on canvas).

Add to these, my daughter's craft work and her husband's photography and I have a very pleasant environment in which to think and read. I especially appreciate it during this extended period of time when not much else is available to me -- no walking and going to coffee, no driving, no exercise classes, not even much in the way of household chores.

That Wednesday evening, a week and a day ago, I fell coming out of my office. Tripped on the cat's scratching box. Yep, Kočka, that bad cat I've posted about before.

Scared me. At my age, falling is a serious no-no. I've had both knees repaced, and I was really afraid I had messed up the left one. Being able to go up and down the stairs, left right left right, to the laundry room in the basement is a big deal. A very big deal. Just sayin'.

My husband Scott helped me up and I got to the couch just fine, but within an hour, there was a lot of  swelling and pain and I knew I needed to go to the ER. Scott called 911 and the fire department sent an ambulance and firetruck to my house. Complete with paramedics. (If they roll the ambulance, they roll a firetruck, too. Standard protocol.) So there were five men filling up the great room. They were all big and fit and, of course, good lookin'.

They strapped me onto a "stair chair," told me to cross my arms across my chest, and carried me out the front door, down the front steps, and to our van for the ride to the hospital. It's been a very long time since I was "carried" anywhere. Actually that was the scarriest part of the whole ordeal. But they didn't drop me. They didn't even stumble or groan under my weight. 

At the hospital, they prepared to x-ray my right leg, but I pointed out it was my left leg that was hurt. It took a little while to get the corrected written order. They found no obvious damage to the implant or the bones in my left knee. That was good. But they also did a CT scan of my head. I hit it during the fall, not badly enough to even raise a bump. Still, better to check. I do, however, take exception to the result of the scan of my head -- "unremarkable."

Being house-bound hasn't been much of a hardship. Plenty of time to read because it's been cold and snowy this whole time. And Scott has been feeding me like royalty -- not to mention fetching and carrying. One does not carry a cup of coffee while on crutches. 

Been reading Barbara Kingsolver's High Tide in Tuscon: Essays from Now or Never. I think she is the best writer working in the United States today. Her use of the English language and content is first rate. I've added several books she mentions to my To Read list. 

AND I learned a new word -- allelopathy. It means "the chemical inhibition of one plant (or other organism) by another, due to the release into the environment of substances acting as germination or growth inhibitors." I don't remember ever seeing or hearing that word. Kingsolver has a master's degree in ecology and evolutionary biology from the University of Arizona, so, of course, she would use it.

Yesterday was yet one more day that the walking group had no walk planned because of the weather --  temp below freezing and windy, snow covered ground. But we did have coffee planned at The Great Harvest Bread Company. Scott dropped me off. They always have good music there. Today, it was Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Wonder, Heart, etc.  I had a snickerdoodle cookie and coffee.  And Sue and Marchelle were, as always, great company.

Me, Sue, and Marchelle at Great Harvest Bread Store

(and the crutches!)

Maneuvering in snow with the crutches, I was very careful and intentional. And slow. It was great!

And tomorrow is the January meeting of our Books and More Salon. Scott's going to drive me there. 

My life is definitely getting back on the road!

Tenth Anniversary -- flash fiction

from spin.com

She awoke early. Not a stitch of bedding covered her. She was cold and her left hip ached. At thirty-five she was too young for arthritis. Unfortunately her hip didn’t know that.

Wrapped up in the blankets, her husband slept, breathing through his mouth. Unfortunately, he’d not brushed his teeth after that last beer. If his mouth felt and tasted like it smelled, how could he stand it? Even in his sleep?

Only twenty minutes left before the alarm. She might as well get up. One look at the bathroom floor and she almost forgot why she went in there. His work clothes, underwear, and socks drifted against the dirty clothes hamper. Against the hamper! What was so difficult about lifting the lid and dropping them in there?

And, speaking of lifting the lid, what was so difficult about closing the toilet lid?

She sighed.

She reminded herself that if it bothered her, then it was her problem and she would have to deal with it. She’d told him before that it bothered her. Did he not believe her? Did he enjoy irritating her?

She picked up the clothes and closed the toilet lid after herself.

In the kitchen she hit the coffee maker’s ‘on’ button and leaned against the counter waiting for that wonderful falling water sound that it makes as life-giving liquid pours into the carafe and the soothing aroma fills the room.

Nothing happened. Is it plugged in? Yes, it’s plugged in. There’s no water in the reservoir. There are no fresh grounds in the basket. He told her he’d set it up before he went to bed. He made a special effort to tell her he’d do it. If he hadn’t said he would, she would have.

She slammed the cabinet door. So what if it woke him up? He needed to get up anyway. And he could make his own breakfast. If he could handle pouring oatmeal into the bowl and operate the microwave. Whatever. She certainly was not going to do it.

She heard him get up and go into the bathroom. The toilet flushed. At least he flushed the toilet. He probably didn’t notice that she’d picked his clothes up.

She heard him rummaging around in the hall closet. What was he doing now? That was his closet and she never went into it. She’d be afraid to. Large, furry animals had probably set up housekeeping in there. Heaven knew he hadn’t done any housekeeping in there. Or anywhere else.

He came into the kitchen wearing a do-rag and an old T-shirt from some concert back in the old days when they went to concerts. He must have lost his mind.

Smiling like he’d won the lottery, he waved his phone at her.

“You, my beautiful wife have an appointment at the day spa.”

He HAD lost his mind. Her boss expected a full-day’s work for a full-day’s pay. She didn’t get time off for spa visits.

“It’s all arranged. Alex is letting you off at 2:30 and a taxi will take you to the spa. I’ll pick you up at 5:00. We’ll have a hamburger at that little joint on 23rd and be in the amphitheater by 7:30.”

How could he be so enthusiastic and noisy that early in the morning? She poured herself another cup of coffee.

She set the cup down barely avoiding disaster as he grabbed her around the waist and whirled her in the air. He brandished the phone at her again. This time giving her a chance to read the screen. Two tickets, $118.52. What was he thinking? That much money would almost pay the phone bill.

“Santana! My own black magic woman!” His eyes twinkled, and his breath was minty fresh. “I won the Pick Three. 10-13-4! That was our first date. Ten years ago today.” He threw his hands out wide and wiggled a little dance step. “We saw Santana and you were the most beautiful woman I knew. I couldn’t believe you’d go out with me, but you did. And I’m even gladder now than I was then.”

Gladder? Ah, well. Words were not his life. But she thought he was pretty cute.

“Wear that blue outfit, honey,” he said. “You look really hot in it.” Then he winked. “And even hotter out of it.”

She drank her second cup of coffee and smiled. She knew there were more important things in life than a man who picked up his clothes and brushed his teeth every night before bed. Any man who was lucky enough to win the Pick Three and thoughtful enough to remember their first date – not to mention, think her beautiful – had a lot going for him.

Never Underestimate the Lives of Old Men -- Flash Fiction

from cupsofcoffee100.blogspot.com

Herb sat on a park bench. He wasn’t far from home, less than three blocks. He walked there every morning when the weather was good. It didn’t have to be perfect. As long as the sun was shining. Or the wind didn’t blow too hard. Or it wasn’t raining or snowing. It was good enough. Even in hot weather. He’d go home for lunch and that was always early enough to miss the heat of the day.

Herb picked up his cane and walked across the street to the Seven Eleven for a coffee. Their coffee was good enough. He’d never drunk that Starbucks. Went in there one time, looked at the prices, figured out that what they called a tall was actually a small and walked right out again.

Most days a friend or two would come by and they’d visit. Trade war stories. Not too many fellows still around that remembered The Big One. Even Art was too young for that. He’d been in Vietnam. Just a young whipper-snapper. But he was all right.

Still in good shape, too. That Art. He said it was dancing that kept him fit. Herb thought it was probably the women that kept Art in shape.

Back on his bench, Herb listened to the world around him and sipped his coffee. The thing about coffee was the aroma. It brought back those early mornings with Madge. He always got up first and put the coffee on. She was practically unconscious before her first cup. Then she’d make breakfast. He’d wake the kids and they’d all eat together.

When the kids got into high school, breakfast was often their only meal together. Come to think of it, Herb Junior would have been about the same age as Art. Sixties. Somehow he didn’t think Herb Junior and Art would have gotten along all that well. Herb Junior was a quiet, thoughtful lad. A good son.

The sun was warm on Herb’s back as he dozed and dreamed of a different time and place. His father’s farm. Lying in the wheat, looking up at the sky. All he could see were green leaves and blue skies. The sun was warm on his face and bare chest and he could hear red-winged black birds whistling to each other. There were chores to do, but he could lie here a few more minutes.

“Hey, Old Man!” The girl with the spiky, black hair skated toward him smiling. “You gonna sleep all day?”

“Tina, how’s things?”

“Fine, Herb. How are you feeling today?”

“Better than I have any right to.”

A quick spin in front of him, and she was off again.

Herb had a daughter. Genevieve. She used to be young, too. With brown hair and bangs so long, you’d think she couldn’t have seen a thing. She was an intense young woman always working for one cause or another. She would have been one of those Peaceniks Art complained of.

Her hair is white now and she has bad knees. It was hard for him to think of her as a grandmother.

The morning sun soon had him sleeping again. The kids were grown and gone. Herb Junior was working in Washington, D.C. Gen had sent them new pictures of the grandkids. It was just him and Madge camping in the piney woods. They were sitting back to back on a big rock in the middle of the creek. He could feel the warmth of her against him. He could hear a woodpecker working a tree somewhere nearby and smell the pines.

Something woke him. Art was sitting at the other end of the bench. The two of them just sitting while the street in front of the park filled with police cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing.

A group of policemen moved past them. One peeled away from the pack and asked, “You guys seen anybody come past here on a bicycle? Mighta been wearin’ a green knit cap.”

Herb looked at Art and Art looked at Herb. They both shook their heads. And the officer hurried away.

“So, Art. You got a green knit cap.”

“Sure do, but it’s too hot to wear in the summer time.”

They sat there in the sun a little while longer. They watched the policemen and talked about the excitement, whatever it was. The officer hadn’t said. They talked about the weather and how it was getting pretty warm.

Herb stood up using his cane for support. “Well, it’s about time for some lunch.”

“See you around,” Art said making as though to tip his hat.

Herb walked away, a little stoop-shouldered, a little shuffle-stepped.

Art got his bicycle from behind the bench and rode away from the police activity.