Craziness lately. Happened upon and broke up a very serious domestic dispute in the middle of a hay field. Heard back from an old roommate from 40 years ago. He’s now the president of a large corporation that owns TV stations across the country. Sold the first unit of a brand new product that just might take the propane world by storm.
And then there’s the little accident I had the other day. I posted a few details then but I’ll share a few more tidbits today.
It seems whenever I have a close call, I pause, look back and marvel at the most recent brush with death. I often break out in a sweat, get chills, or feel the need to go home and hide under the covers.
The periods following these near-catastrophes are life-changing, humbling and usually have a new-lease-on-life resolution tacked on the front door of my outlook to the future.
These precious times of resolve to live less dangerously usually last a few minutes and then I have to get back to work.
If a clinic or trip to town to see the doctor are involved, I meditate on the preciousness of life and my mortality for at least a half-hour.
If an ambulance, hospital, out-patient surgery or divorce lawyer is part of the mix, I steer toward the long-term resolve-making period that hangs around for at least 12 hours. Usually no more. Sometimes a little less.
But after this last weeks seemingly minor altercation of my lower forehead with the hook on the end of a chain, I’ve felt a little shaky all week.
This picture was taken 4 or 5 days after the incident.
I felt much better during the photo shoot above than the day of the accident/photo shoot when I unfairly got shot between the eyes. On the day in question, I had been perched on top of the bin just behind me, kneeling on the top access cover and feeling like my day was moving along just fine.
This series of tubes were suspended inside the bin on a chain hanging through the top of the bin and then wrapped over the top rail of the man lift visible in the first picture of this post. I felt semi-comfortable with the partial hook fastening of the chain holding the tubes. I should have known something was up since I usually feel semi-comfortable just before everything goes to pot.
At the time I was using a cordless drill. And then Wham-O!
A few days later when my head quit ringing, I found the drill where it had landed following the incident when I unknowingly let go of it. At the time, I had more important things happening on my mind. Or perhaps I should say just below my eyebrows.
To some, this may not even sound like a close call. All I have is a little scab to show for the incident. No broken bones. No police report. No damaged vehicles. No bent propeller.
Just a scab.
Lucky for me, that hook didn’t latch on to my teeth as it made it’s supersonic route upward. And if it had hooked in to one of my nostrils, that nostril would be even larger than it is in this picture. I feel fortunate that this was just a close call.
The reason I know it was a close call is because I know how hard that hook connected between my eyeballs. I’ve been knocked into the land of La-la quite a few times over the years. I’ve also knocked on the door of unconsciousness many times but never quite pulled the trigger and therefore had to deal with a fair amount of pain.
Trust me, it’s easier to get knocked out than it is to not quite get across the border. In addition, if people are around, you get a lot more attention and sympathy if you’re comatose. At least I think you do. I really have no idea what people are doing when I’m out cold.
Maybe they’re saying stuff like “What an idiot!” or “Let’s just run over him again and put an end to his misery.”
Anyway, my point is that I am an expert at close brushes with loss of consciousness. This week’s incident was a very close brush with death. And the resulting, long-lasting and unnerving conviction of this incident has been with me all week.
If I’d been cooled by that hook, I would have slid down the roof, gone over the edge and landed 25 feet below on the corner of the concrete apron that juts out from the bin floor. Even in my book of edgy scrapes, this was a very lucky incident of keeping my temp at 98.6 degrees instead of the ambient temperature of a morgue cupboard.
I’ve been imagining what the scene would have looked like. I think it would have been like this:
I’d be flapping my new angel wings as I steadily gained altitude away from the scene. I’d probably be watching the slumped figure next to Bin #1 and wonder how in the world a beached whale ended up this far from the coast. If I flapped slow enough, I’d probably see the ambulance crew show up and start giving each other high fives.
“He finally did it this time!” “Whoo Hoo! That’s what he gets for not wearing his safety harness like we’ve told him a million times to do!”
“Finally we get a call to take Ben in instead of him driving himself to the hospital! And he ruins the deal by not hanging on just a little longer”
“Oh well. Instead of the hospital, I guess we can take him to Mueller Out To Pasture Center and Funeral Home. There no reason for lights and siren but let’s do it anyway. I’m sure he’ll like that!”
“So how do we go about scooping up this whale blubber?” After looking around, they’d say “Well, there are plenty of scoop shovels. He must have used them to shovel corn. Each one of us better grab one and start shoveling blubber. It’s going to be a long morning.”
And then, if one of my wings wasn’t working properly (which is no big deal because I’m so used to problem limbs), I might not be too high to watch the funeral proceedings. This would probably be the first time in 50 years that I see the entire congregation clapping and cheering in the chapel. Usually that kind of behavior is frowned upon in a Mormon chapel but my bet is that the honchos in charge of the meeting would be the ones leading the cheers.
There’d be a lot of fist pumps and jumping up and down, OK for a Holy Roller Revival but out of place in the chapel of an LDS meeting house.
I can imagine the talks. I’d hate to be out of hearing range because there’d probably be a time or two that even I would find funny.
This all brings me back to the age-old question, what will happen this coming week?
Last but not least, our winner this week is Dan Allred. He is my #38 Facebook friend.
Dan, if you’re a Recovering Idiot follower and sharer, let me know. $500 is waiting.
Lucky for me, I’ve skated through 4 months of drawing names without having to divvy up the 500. It has drug on so long I was even thinking about doing a drawing a day to find an eventual winner sooner.
I mentioned this idea to one of my ecclesiastical leaders and he gave me this exact counsel: “Heck no, milk this thing as long as you can!”
So, because of the Reverend’s counsel, it looks like maybe we’re going to have an eternal $500 prize dangling in front of blog non-followers for eons of time. You can blame it on my spiritual adviser.
But unfortunately, my wife mentioned that she thinks Danny Boy is a blog follower. This scared me because I don’t want to part with all the greenbacks it’s going to take to pay him off.
It also ticks me off because just this once, she might be right. It also doesn’t help that Dan is her brother’s son. If a relative is going to win this thing, I want it to be from my side of the family.
But then again, maybe I do owe him. Our youngest son Michael who was in his early 20’s, spent a summer in Alaska driving one of Dan’s Fed Ex Ground trucks around on the frozen tundra.
He also helped him put together swing sets and trampolines after work. In fact, one night after Mike had cobbled together some mail order equipment for a single and rich lady in her 50’s, she gave him a $300 tip in addition to the final assembly bill.
Mike was single at the time. I advised him that in spite of the age and financial differences, he should start dating her and see if they had anything in common.
It’s just lucky I wasn’t up there working for Dan. I might still be in Alaska.
I usually put the winning name in my Facebook announcement concerning the blog post so the person selected can let me know if they’re a blog follower and $500 richer. With Dan, I’m not going to do this because…
- He doesn’t need the money. He’s owns a Fed Ex fleet and my $500 would just get lost in the shuffle I’m sure Dan makes everyday to the bank.
- He’s from the wrong side of the family. If he doesn’t come forward in the next 20 minutes, I’m going to declare him ineligible and draw another name. Hopefully from my side of the fam.
- He lives in Alaska and as we all know, Alaskans rake in cash every year from the state. Once again, he doesn’t need this money like all the rest of my blog followers do who live south of Canada.
In closing I might mention this little tidbit. Dan’s dad and Michele’s brother Scott also owns a Fed Ex fleet and lives in Wasilla Alaska. This incident occurred about the time that McCain picked Sarah Palin as his running mate. I also think it was about the time McCain started losing his marbles.
All his marbles are gone now.
Anyway, Sarah also hails from Wasilla. Scott delivered a package to her one morning while Sarah was still in her nightgown. That’s about all the dirt I’ve got on my wife’s brother.
Please don’t tell Dan about this situation. I posted some of this story including the announcement last night just after midnight. I added some more this morning and haven’t gotten on Facebook yet. My greatest fear is that Dan is already aware of the results and clamoring for his money.