Enduring Love

Funny how time has a way of warping when you’re facing tragedy, one day just blends into another until they all become one big blur.  A thousand clichés come to mind when I think of time – All in due time, time waits for no one, time is all we have, making time, the times; they are a changing, time heals all wounds…Time - It is truly the only priceless commodity.

Life’s most precious memories are not usually measured in days or weeks – but moments in time.  What settles in our souls are the snapshots of life.  We remember the moment we held a precious newborn in our arms, the moment we said, “I do”, the moment we saw a child off to college, the moment we looked in the eyes of someone we loved for a lifetime and truly saw them for the first time. Those memories are what make up the tapestry of our lives. 

 It is just such a moment that has rested in my heart when I think of my parents.  I want to share this moment as a way of celebrating the joy of their love for one another. 

I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to see both my parents recently.  Living in Florida, I was not able to visit them as often as I would have liked.  Yet, I knew my mom was very sick and I felt that I should see her sooner rather than later.  I had no idea that this visit would indeed be the last time I would see both my parents alive.  When I walked into my mom’s ICU unit I was not prepared for what I saw.  She was gaunt and frail; too weak to speak.  Yet I knew she was happy to see me because her eyes crinkled and she tried to smile through her oxygen mask.  She wanted to say something, but it was impossible to hear her feeble whisper.  She finally gave up trying and slipped into a restless sleep.  I stayed by her side stroking her hair and praying for her to regain her strength.  Seeing her like this strengthened my resolve to somehow bring my father to see her. 

I was keenly aware that she may indeed be dying and my father had not seen her in over two months.  They had been separated from each other for such a long time because he was not able to travel due to an infection that he acquired in the nursing home where he was living after his stroke.  My mother had visited him everyday until she had to leave the state of NC and return to our family in NJ.  She was looking for a place to relocate my dad when she became suddenly ill and had to undergo emergency surgery.  He was still in NC when she went into the hospital.  It took our family a few weeks to transfer my dad to a facility just down the road from my mom’s hospital.  Yet, he still had not seen her.  

During my visit to NJ, I was determined to facilitate reuniting my dad with my mother – even if it meant bringing him to the ICU.  This was not an easy decision to make.  My brother, sisters and I knew it would be a painful trip for my dad because of his severe arthritis.  His nursing home was unable to provide transportation meaning that we would have to transport him ourselves.  

I was second guessing the wisdom of it all as it took four people to bend and maneuver my dad into my sister’s small car.  He cried out in pain several times.  Every time he cried out, I asked him if he still wanted to make the trip and every time he gave me “the look”.  “The look” is hard to explain.  It is one of those “just do it” kind of looks – sort of bothered and impatient.  It is the same kind of look he would get on his face Sunday mornings when he waited at the bottom of the staircase jingling his keys for my mom to get moving for church.  He never yelled or raised his voice.  He just gave you “the look”.  I was getting “the look” now.  So, we managed to get him settled in the car and I got behind the wheel.  I drove the short distance to the hospital; my dad crying out in obvious pain every time I turned a corner or hit a bump.  


I kept nervously glancing his way all the while saying, “You’re going to see mom soon!”  


I would get “the look” in response.  I finally just shut up and drove.  My sister sat in the back seat lost in her own thoughts.  The quiet ride was punctuated with my dad’s cries.  I was a bundle of nerves by the time we arrived at the hospital.

It took two burly security guards to get my dad out of the car.  I said, “Dad we’re going to see mom!”  


He looked at me with that “I know already!!” exasperation in his eyes.  He motioned to me to get on with things and move the wheelchair.  I quietly wheeled him through the hospital halls as my mind raced on ahead to my mother’s room where my two sisters were awaiting our arrival.  I knew by now that they had told my mom of our plans.  I imagined the expectation and anxiety my mother must be feeling.  She and my father had not seen each other for so long.  I cannot recall a time when they were separated for even two days during their entire 42 years of marriage.  Now, my father was going to see my mother lying prostrate in a hospital bed, unable to talk and hooked up to all kinds of machines.  I knew that she would be fretting about my dad seeing her in such a state.  Yet, she too was very clear when we casually asked her if she would like to see dad.  Her eyes lit up and she clearly shook her head yes.  This was what I was picturing in my mind’s eye as we finally neared the ICU unit and my sisters gathered around my dad preparing him for what lay ahead.  He quickly waved all of us off and motioned for me to move his wheelchair.  

It wasn’t until we actually crossed the threshold of that room that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt we had indeed made the right decision.  In that moment I saw my parents - not as the two people who raised me - but as two people whose love transcended all earthly constraints and connected them on a level far beyond the physical realm. It is true that the eyes are the window to one’s soul.  As soon as they gazed into each other’s eyes, I knew that their souls connected; they had no need for words.  

There are neither pictures to capture nor words to describe the raw emotion of those last moments they spent together.  I slowly wheeled my dad to my mom’s bedside and watched my father’s arthritic hand ever so gently stroke my mother’s fragile arm.  Her eyes were aglow with love and his face changed in an instant from tortured to tender.  Neither could speak- my dad from his stroke, my mother from weakness.  It didn’t matter.  They were like two dancers whose rhythm is so in tune there’s no need for music.  They were united again; two hearts so uniquely and passionately joined they truly beat as one.  I felt somewhere deep in my own heart that this might be the last time they saw each other.  I know now that it was God’s hand that quietly nudged me to make the trip when I did and nudged me again to bring my parents together.

Up until the day I crossed that threshold with the wheelchair I hadn’t cried. Perhaps I was trying to be strong for my family.  Perhaps I was afraid of the emotions welling up inside.  Whatever the reason, I kept my pain and sadness at bay.  Yet, witnessing this vulnerability in my parents suddenly pushed me over the edge.  My tough exterior crumbled and I felt my sobs pulling me in like a great ocean current.  The waves of emotion came thundering into my heart.  All at once, I felt my resolve crumble and I knew I was falling to pieces.  

I didn’t want my parents to see me crumble before their eyes.  Besides, I wanted to leave them to their private moments together so I quickly stepped outside of the antiseptic hospital room and into the comforting arms of an ICU nurse.  Perhaps it was desperation that made me cling to this kindhearted nurse, but cling I did.  I clung to her like she was a lifeboat in a stormy sea and I cried and cried.  My racking sobs shook me into depths of despair.  She held me and just let me cry.  I guess ICU nurses are used to such things.  I just let it all out.  I sobbed out of sadness and loss – for I knew my mother would soon be gone.  I already sensed the void in my heart.  I knew these two people were saying their goodbyes.  I knew they would meet again, but probably not on this earth.  I knew this might well be the last time I would see them together because I did not expect my mom to hold on much longer.

Yet, I also cried tears of joy.  Joy because they were able to connect one last time and joy because I knew the love they so passionately shared for each other was also shared with their children.  As is evident in the lives of their six children, their sixteen grandchildren and one great grandchild; these two people were loved dearly. And, in the end, they taught me that love is the greatest gift we can give one another – love and time.  Theirs’ is a great love story; a love story where the phrase “to death do us part” held no meaning because they chose to be joined in death as they were in life.  

It was a shock when I received a call not more than a week after my visit.  The call came at 3:00 in the morning.  It was my brother.  I braced myself for the news that I was expecting.  I was already hearing his words before he said them, “Mom died.”  However, that is not what he said between his sobs.  Instead, he said, “Dad’s in the hospital.”  He explained that my father had aspirated his food in the nursing home and they had to transfer him to an ICU room in the very same unit caring for my mom.  

Later that day, while I was at work, I received the dreaded call from my sister.  I don’t know why I went to work.  I knew in my heart that I would be getting a call.  I should have been on a plane heading north but there really wasn’t much I could do now.  My brother said they had dad heavily sedated so he was currently unresponsive and my mother was essentially the same.  Going to work at least got my mind off things.

I was standing at the podium in front of my class doing my best to appear normal and get through the reading lesson without breaking down into a blubbering idiot.  Then, my assistant principal appeared at the door.  When our eyes met, I knew.  I knew it was something terrible.  She motioned for me to come with her.  Zombie-like I made my way on leaden feet to her office.  She handed me the phone and quietly stepped out of the office closing the door behind her.  

My sister was crying so hard I could barely make out her words.  All I heard over and over again was, “It’s dad!”  “It’s dad!”  

Dad?  What about dad?  Her words weren't registering.  

“What do you mean, 'it’s dad'?”  

“He’s on a respirator.” My sister managed to say between sobs.  “They want to turn it off!  We need to know if you want to be here before…before they turn off the machine.”  

I don’t know what happened next.  It seemed like time stood still while I held the phone in my hand and images of my father floated through my head.  Christmas when he gave me my first Fender Duo-Sonic electric guitar…he and I playing chess…the day I rode my unicycle without holding onto the walls and he stood clapping in the hall…the bike rides we took…dad.  

“Dad!” I moaned.  


Soon my husband and my principal appeared and they ushered my out the door to the car.  I was in a fog.  I don’t remember saying goodbye to my sister.  I remember saying something about not waiting for me…I had already said my goodbyes.   

  

Later that day, as I made plane reservations, the machine was turned off and my dad quietly went to be with the Lord.  My mother, who was a few rooms away, was told about my father.  Within 48 hours she slipped peacefully into a coma and stopped breathing on her own.  Rarely does one spouse follow so quickly after another.  Yet, my parents were different in so many respects.  Their connection was so strong that I truly believe they were each other’s lifelines.  One could not and would not want to go on without the other.  


I keep thinking about that day in the hospital room when they were reunited.  It was their last dance.  They were great dancers.  They danced together through life and into death.  As my brother-in-law so aptly put it, dad was impatiently jingling his keys in heaven saying, “Get up here already, the music is playing!”   

Pearls of Wisdom

I don’t know where the phrase “pearls of wisdom” came from, but I understand now how God sends us pearls of wisdom everyday, if we know where to look for them.  For instance, this photograph that I took of a dew-laden spider web is certainly etched with pearls of wisdom from God Himself.  Who else could be the master creator of such fine, magnificent beauty?  When I think of the spider that wove this intricate masterpiece, I have to marvel at the Creator’s handiwork.  This tiny spider spent its entire night crafting this work of art so that we, if we choose to search for it, will have the privilege of marveling at his effort.  If we’re lucky enough to freeze frame this forever, we are truly blessed to be able to behold this beauty time and time again.  

So, what are the pearls of wisdom strung through this delicate fiber?  So many...so many pearls.  Really, each pearl possesses the ability to make one think and ponder about life.  

To me they represent the beauty of nature; they tell me to respect nature - even spiders.  This strand tells me that mirror images can be fascinating as I look into the water marbles and see my own reflection in a different light.  I see God’s promise of renewal in knowing that this spider will craft this web every evening for as long as it lives.  I see captivity...captive water and soon to be captive prey.   I see spider-sturdy branches that hold its web suspended despite the heavy dew load.  It reminds me that some things that appear to be fragile really aren’t.  The stark contrast of the black and white still frame reminds me that, even in life’s shadows, one can behold beauty.  

How long did the spider labor to build this wonder?  What if a clumsy person, haphazard animal or strong wind come along and destroy its creation?  Will the spider cry?  Will it wallow in the tragedy?  Will it give up hope?  Will it die?  I wonder about these things.  Are these emotions strictly human emotions or do spiders worry that their webs will succumb to calamity?  

Why did God choose something so small and seemingly insignificant as a spider to create something so intricate, strong and beautiful?  Is He trying to make us look at the parallel universe in which we exist?  Is it not the weakest among us that often cause us to see their true strength?  The premature infant struggling against all odds to survive, the double amputee war veteran who runs a marathon on born again legs, the autistic child who produces extraordinary music...they are the ones that evoke deep myriad emotions in us.  They’re the ones who God places in our midst to keep us humble; like the tiny, seemingly trivial spider.  

I wish I could take the dew pearl necklace and hang it around my neck, but that would destroy its purpose and all its pearls would be lost.  No; better to leave it here and capture it’s beauty through my lens.  Perhaps others will come and behold the pearls and glean God’s infinite wisdom.  I know I will walk away from this moment carrying a pearl of gratitude in my heart...thank you God!  Thank you for my legs that brought me here, my eyes that spotted this beauty, my mind that pondered it, my camera that captured it and my heart that opened to its marvelous mystery.  I am so blessed!

Peehay

The months passed and more goats arrived.  They were breeding faster than rabbits.  Our little herd of fifteen had grown to twenty-two.  Bobby, our neighbor who is the caretaker of the farm next door, told us we should never name farm animals because they are not pets.  Lulu never learned Bobby’s golden rule about naming goats. Lulu named every one of the goats.  Her favorite goat, besides Sugar, was Peehay.  Peehay was named after Lulu observed her peeing on the hay.  She was a pretty white goat with a gentle personality.  I often observed Lulu outside hugging and talking to Peehay.  Peehay would follow Lulu around the pen and nudge her and they’d run off together.  I swear that goat was more dog than goat.  Those two were inseparable.   Then, one day, Peehay became ill.  

Lulu and I went out to the pen to feed the goats like we always did but Peehay didn’t come over to greet us.  She was trying to get up but didn’t seem to have the strength.  Lulu ran to her and tried to pull her up.  My heart sank as I watched my little girl struggling with all her might to bring her listless friend to her feet.  When I reached them, I knew right away that Peehay was terribly sick.  It was clear from the surrounding ground that Peehay had an extremely bad case of diarrhea.  After checking her mouth and seeing white gums, I knew she was also very dehydrated.  

I carried her to another stall and began trying to nurse her back to health.  I called the vet and he told me to give her electrolytes and call him if she didn't get better.  Electrolytes, Milk of Magnesia, deworming…you name it; I tried it.  For two days and two nights we tried everything to help Peehay.  I slept in her stall holding her head in my lap praying that she'd get better.  I kept picturing Lulu and Peehay running through the pasture - not a care in the world.  All night long I sat in the stall petting Peehay's head crying and blubbering over her as I willed her to get well.  I don't think this is the way a farmer should act!  

I called the vet again.  He told me to call the “goat lady".  The goat lady lived just down the street from our farm and was like the witch doctor for goats.  I had heard about her, but had never personally met this woman who was credited with saving half the goat population in our county.  I figured that if anyone could save our little Peehay, it would be the "goat lady".  So, Bill, Lulu and I loaded Peehay into the back of the truck and went to see the goat lady.  As soon as the goat lady saw Peehay, she told me that she didn't think she would be able to save her but she gave her a mega-dose of electrolytes and two shots.  She said that if Peehay made it through the night she might be able to pull through but, alas, all our efforts failed.  Three days after she got sick, Peehay became our first goat tragedy.  

The funeral was simple; attended by Lulu, Katie, Bill and I.  Lulu read a poem she wrote for the funeral.

Peehay

Peehay you were so sweet

Even when you peed on the hay

Peehay you were so cute

Even when you peed on the hay

Peehay you were my friend

Even when you peed on the hay

I loved you everyday 

Even when you peed on the hay

We all said a prayer and Bill dug the hole.  Joe appeared as Bill was lowering Peehay into the hole.  “My brother and me used to have a goat…” he began.

Flea Guy

If my husband, Bill, had his own TV show, it would be called Flea Guy because he is a flea market junky. Or, more accurately, a garage sale fanatic. He can smell a garage sale from five miles away, and the car must have some secret built-in radar system. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I believe a group is out there with their radios tuned to a particular station that picks up the radar. You can spot them in their cars, scanning the medians for the bleeding garage sale signs with the obscured arrows. They're the ones that'll do donuts on a dime in the middle of a congested highway, pull up to the curbside, leave their cars running, and block five lanes of traffic. They race out of their vehicles, skim the contents of a driveway in the blink of an eye, purchase a gold necklace buried in the bottom of a pile of shells, sprint back to the car in ten seconds flat, and are on to the next garage sale before they realize that they left their family two garage sales back. 

When we go to flea markets, it's much worse. I need my own Segway to keep up with Bill. He's the ten-speed bike at the flea market, and I'm the three-wheel trike. He's constantly leaving me in his dust, so I don't feel guilty about the pair of shrunken heads I purchased in his absence. Anyway, he is the master of the bargain. While my fifty-dollar shrunken heads sit in the garage, freaking out all the neighborhood kids and giving them nightmares, his ten-cent book sells on the internet for four hundred dollars. He is amazing. 

Not only does my husband haunt garage sales, flea markets, and auctions, but he also frequents thrift stores. Once, for his birthday, I made up personal gift certificates for him and delivered them to the local thrift stores. Then I gave him a map with clues and sent him on his own scavenger hunt from one thrift store to another. It was pure genius (if I do say so myself). 

Bill and I have been married for twenty-five years, and I don't believe he's ever missed a Saturday morning garage sale and/or flea market. On one road trip from Florida to NJ with the kids (in the truck with the missing back window), he took a slight detour and arrived at his favorite flea market a tad early - 3 AM. It was frigid cold, so he bundled the kids in blankets and told them to get some shut-eye before the flea market opened at five. Needless to say, that is one memory etched in the fabric of our family forever. There's another memory that I'm reminded of every time I walk into my closet. 

I admit that I am not a "cleaner outer." When I hang something in the back of my closet, it is because I don't plan on wearing it for at least the next ten years, but I keep it just in case I lose that extra twenty pounds. Anyway, something must have come over me about five years ago when I made a valiant attempt to declutter my side of the bulging mess we call a "walk-in" closet. It is more like a "trip-in" closet due to the vast array of mismatched shoes and other sundries littering the closet floor. Anyway, I was a decluttering queen. I showed no mercy to the blouses screaming that I only had fifteen pounds to go, the tie-dyed jeans that reminded me they were coming back in fashion, the argyle sweaters growing dust bunnies - they all got squished into the dreaded "thrift store" garbage bag where old clothes gasp their last breath. 

So, like I said, my husband has been known to haunt a few thrift stores occasionally. Usually, when he returns home, he brings me out to the car to dazzle me with his finds. He is always considerate of my latest undertaking. He frequently brings back some fantastic one-of-a-kind treasures to enhance my project. Once, he brought me an entire frog band made from recycled metal for my garden. 

A few months after I cleaned my closet, he was off on one of his shopping sprees. When he returned home this time, he was incredibly proud of his find. 

"Honey, you're not going to believe what I found!" He said breathlessly as he grabbed my hand and pulled me to the car. 

He was so excited - like a kid in a candy shop. I couldn't imagine what he found that excited him so. He even made me close my eyes. You can imagine my surprise when I was finally allowed to open my eyes and behold the treasure. Right before me stood my husband grinning from ear to ear, holding a familiar item.

"Can you believe it!" He laughed. "I found a blouse just like the one you used to wear when we were first married!"  

I was speechless! There it was in all its 1980s glory - my old blouse that might cover one boob now if I positioned it just so.

 "Oh, honey!" I crooned, "How did you ever find the exact blouse'!"  

"I know, right!" He grinned, "Amazing, huh?" 

I just couldn't bear to tell him the truth. I lovingly took the blouse, kissed my husband, and thanked him for his incredible find. I made my way to the closet and hung the blouse on the hanger it had vacated about a month earlier. I don't know, but I might have heard it chuckle (like the last laugh) as I placed it back in its empty spot in the closet. 

Some women have husbands that bring them diamond rings. Some women have husbands that wine and dine them and cover their pillows in rose petals. Still, I bet that I am the only woman with a husband who remembers what I wore twenty years ago and believes that I can still fit in it! 

Jersey Girl

Jersey Girl, our horse, derived her name from the home of our friends who are from Jersey. I was describing our new horse to them when I commented that her color was similar to the brown wall color in their dining room. My friend said that was the color they had in their home in New Jersey. We were originally from New Jersey as well, so I commented that the horse must be a "Jersey Girl," and the name stuck. 

It is fitting that our horse created drama while we were away visiting our family in Jersey. Jersey Girl is a sweet-natured but high spirited quarter horse. She frequently runs circles around our five-acre pasture, maneuvering the palm trees and oak trees with swift, graceful turns. Her incredible speed and agility will someday make her a great barrel horse if we ever have the money to pay someone to train her properly. 

So, as I said, we were in Jersey visiting our family while our neighbors in the 55 and over trailer park were looking after the goats, dogs, cats, and Jersey Girl. I have wonderful neighbors who'll do anything for us. I knew that the entire neighborhood would be watching over our farm in our absence because they all loved to come over and hang out on the porch or in the barn. Most of them grew up on farms, and they often tell me that our farm brings back fond memories for them. I knew that the animals were in good hands.

The phone call came in the early afternoon. It was my neighbor, Anna. She was speaking so rapidly I had to ask her to repeat herself several times. 

"It's Jersey Girl!" She yelled into the phone. "She's down, Betty! She's down!" My heart jumped a beat as I heard the words echoing in my ear (which was now permanently deaf). I switched ears. 

"Anna," I said as calmly as possible, "what do you mean she's down?" 

"She's on the ground." Anna screamed, breathlessly into the phone, "We can't get her up!" 

"Okay," I spoke quietly, hoping that Anna would get the hint. "Is she lying on her side?" 

"Yes, she's... on.... her side.... and Jacob..... can't get.... her... up!" Anna's words were coming through the phone in labored breaths as if she were either running a marathon or giving birth. 

"Who's Jacob?" I asked. 

"Betty!" She yelled, "I.... think.... your horse is.... dying!" 

"Anna!" "Get a grip!" I yelled back into the phone. My ears were ringing by this point, and I could feel the beginnings of a raging headache squeezing the back of my skull. 

I asked again, "Who's Jacob?" 

"My son!" Anna screamed. "He knows horses, and he says she's in bad shape." 

"Can you put him on the phone?" I asked, hopefully. 

"Hello," I heard a calm man's voice come on the line. "This is Jacob." 

Jacob explained to me that he believed our horse might be colicing. A colicing horse is a serious problem because it means that the horse could have twisted an intestine, but she would have been thrashing or rolling. I instructed Jacob to watch the horse for a bit since, according to Jacob, Jersey Girl didn't appear to be in any pain. The absence of distress made me think she was okay. I told him to call me back in about a half-hour if she didn't get up or seemed to worsen.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang. It was my neighbor, Maryanne. "Betty," She began breathlessly, "You better get the vet out here. Your horse is colicing, and we're all here trying to get her up." 

"Who's trying to get her up?" I asked.

"Well, let's see," Maryanne said. "There's Benny, Jacob, Sonny, me and Anna. Joe's here too, but he's just watching. Oh, and here comes Bill with Anne. I think that Bobby is making his way over too." 

I could picture the scene in my head: A gaggle of senior citizens swarming around Jersey Girl. The pasture was probably littered with golf carts and three-wheel bikes with Joe's oxygen tank perched precariously on the edge of one of them. I had no idea how they were trying to get Jersey Girl up, but I bet it involved a golf cart, which was worrying me immensely. I could picture Benny, who consumes a six-pack of beer before breakfast, stumbling over Jersey Girl's hooves while directing everyone on the proper procedures for horse lifting. All I could think of was one of them breaking a hip or something else in the process of attempting to lift a 1200 pound horse off the ground. 

I asked Maryanne the same questions I asked Jacob and got the same answers. Jersey Girl did not appear to be in any distress. She wasn't even agitated by all the commotion going on around her. Maryanne didn't know how long she had been lying down, but she reminded me that she was a horse expert having worked as a "hot walker" at a race track fifty years ago. "I know when a horse is colicing!" She informed me in a very stern voice. Maryanne did not leave any room for argument. 

"Okay," I said. "I'll call the vet." 

I called the vet, and the secretary said they just happened to have a doctor out in the area not far from our farm. I told them to send him over ASAP because I was more afraid for the people trying to lift my horse than I was of the horse being gravely ill.

I called Maryanne back to get a report. 

"Oh, it's bad!" she said nervously. "Benny has his arm stuck under the horse!" 

"What!" I yelled into the phone. I heard some commotion in the background. Joe was saying something about getting a big piece of wood to use as a fulcrum. I heard Benny moaning and Sonny telling him to lay down flat next to the horse. 

"Tell Anna to bring the rope..." I heard a voice yelling. 

My brain was screaming at me; Oh God! The horse is going to roll over on Benny and kill him! 

Then I heard someone yell, "He's free!" Maryanne got back on the phone. "He's free. I think he's going to be alright." 

"Maryanne, please tell everyone just to wait for the vet to arrive. He's on his way." I said as I rubbed the back of my throbbing head.

An hour later, I got the report from the vet. He told me that, upon his arrival, he wasn't sure who he should treat first. I was perplexed and said to him that we only have one horse. 

"I know," he said, "but there is a guy passed out cold right in front of the gate." 

"That's just Benny," I said (perhaps a bit too callously). 

"Well," the vet continued, "Then there's the guy whose oxygen tank fell on the ground and isn't working. He's looking a little pale." 

"That's Joe. He'll be okay. He has more oxygen tanks at home." I said, "Tell Anna to get him home right away!" 

"Is Anna the short skinny lady?" The vet asked. "Because she has a big splinter stuck in her hand from the piece of wood they were using to get someone's arm out from under the horse. I'm going to get the splinter out now. It looks like a war zone out here." He continued, "There's all kinds of tools, rope, wood scattered everywhere. I'm surprised someone didn't shoot the horse!" 

"Speaking of the horse," I said, "how is she?"  

"Oh, she's fine." The vet said. "I gave her a shot of muscle relaxer." "She's up now, and Jacob is walking her." I heard Joe in the background, asking to speak to me. The vet handed him the phone. 

"Hi, Betty." he began. "You know we used to have a goat, but I don't think it ever got colic, so I'm no expert on colicing, but I don't think your horse had colic." 

"Joe," I scolded, "get home and get your oxygen tank!" 

I hung up the phone and pictured the scene that was playing out in my pasture. I could envision the vet driving by Benny passed out in front of the gate. In my mind's eye, I saw three-wheel bikes and golf carts being loaded up with various tools and ropes. I pictured everyone patting each other on the back for a job well done while Jacob walked Jersey Girl around in circles. This event will be something that the entire neighborhood will be talking about for years! And to think that all the entertainment for the whole gang only cost me $350.00!

Tractor Pool

The knock on my door seemed a bit more frantic than usual, so I hurried to see who needed my immediate attention and why.  I opened the door to my sopping wet neighbor, Benny.

He skipped all the pleasantries, “I need a ‘pool.’”  He said with a sense of urgency that I seldom see from him.

It looked to me like Benny had already found a “pool, ” but all we had was a hot tub, so I was a bit mystified as to how I could help him with a “pool.”

“A pool?” I asked.

“Yeah!” he replied as if I was the dumbest person on the face of the earth, “A pool!  My lawn mower done took a swim in the pond down there at Sharon’s, and I need a pool!”

“A pull,” I said as understanding started to creep into my brain.

“Yeah!” Benny yelled at me, “Why do you think I’m so wet?”

I didn’t know why Benny was so wet.  Call me stupid, but I would never have attributed his sloshy appearance to his lawn tractor taking a swim in the pond.  Now, I might not be the brightest bulb in the tool shed and my escalator might not go all the way to the top, but I was able to correctly surmise that Benny must have also taken a swim along with his tractor.

“Where’s Bill?” Benny asked.

“Playing tennis.”  I replied, “Do you need me to bring our tractor down to the pond?”

“Sure 'nough!” He said, “You able to ‘pool’ the lawn mower out?”

“It’s me or nothing.”  I laughed since I was the only show in town.  No one else in our neighborhood lived on a farm or owned a vehicle with the towing power of our trusty Farm Pro tractor.

Benny wasn’t laughing.  He just hung his drowned-rat head, slumped his shoulders and squished off the porch.  “'Righty then,” he moaned as he swigged his beer, “We’s down by Sharon’s place.  See you there.”

I was hurt by the lack of confidence that Benny seemed to have in my tractor pulling skill.  I’ll show him, I was thinking as I quickly changed into proper tractor pulling attire; an old tee shirt, torn jeans and beat up sneakers.  I grabbed Lulu and off we went to man the tractor.  Just as we were driving the tractor around from the barn, along came Bill to save the day.


“Benny sunk his lawn tractor,” I informed Bill as he approached us.

“I know.”  He said in his matter-of-fact manner as if this was an everyday occurrence.  “Anna told me.”

He jumped on the tractor, and the three of us rode down the street with Lulu on my lap steering and Bill riding shotgun.

We arrived at the pond to find Benny, miraculously still holding onto his beer, up to his shoulders in murky water.  He was sitting on his fully submerged lawn tractor looking completely dejected as if he just lost his best friend.  A gaggle of geese swam off in the distance while a gaggle of people gathered on the bank.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.” Joe began, “Benny never spilled a drop of beer, even as the tractor slid in slow motion down the bank.  I swear he tumbled three times easy and never once did his beer go under water!”

As the neighbors were discussing Benny’s beer prowess, Bill was expertly maneuvering our tractor through the trees.  Then, he began backing it up along the steep bank.  I started to panic as the tractor leaned precariously toward the water looking as if it was going to join Benny and his ride at any moment.

I started running toward Bill when someone grabbed me from behind and told me to calm down.

“Calm down!” I screamed as I turned to see who had grabbed me.  “My husband is about to topple into the water and ruin our tractor, and you’re telling me to calm down!”

There was no one behind me, though.  All I saw was a bunch of senior citizens sitting in golf carts.  Mary Anne was the only one still hastily retreating toward her golf cart, so I figured she was the culprit, but I didn’t have time to pick a fight with her.  I turned my attention back to the drama unfolding before my eyes and saw that Bill had somehow gotten the tractor back on level ground, but then I noticed the rope they were preparing to use.

I might be a few bricks shy of a wheel barrel, but even I knew that ragged nylon towing strap which was tied to a fraying rope wasn’t going to pull Benny, let alone an entire lawn tractor, out of the water.  Benny already had the tractor hooked up and ready to go.  He was instructing Bill to put the Farm Pro in low gear when I heard someone from the crowd say, “That damn rope ain’t gonna pull notin’ outta that swamp!”

“Stop!” I yelled to my husband who couldn’t hear me over the roar of the engine.


He kept right on pulling.

SNAP!

The crack of the rope reverberated through the crowd sounding like a gunshot. Thankfully, the hook did not come flying back with the rope that was ricocheting through the crowd like an angry snake.  Miraculously, no one in the ever growing crowd was hurt by the ricocheting rope.  Benny, on the other hand, was screaming that his tractor rolled back on his leg.

Luckily, Benny was able to move to one side and pull his leg out.


“I’ll be damned if he still hasn’t spilled that beer!” Someone in the crowd observed.

As everyone was pondering the next move, Mary Anne returned on her golf cart with a chain.  She handed it to a big burly man in overalls.  He entered the pond and attached the chain hook to the tractor while Benny tied the remaining rope to the chain.  I couldn’t understand the wisdom in using the rope again when they had a perfectly good chain that was clearly long enough to reach Bill’s tractor, but I guess Benny thought this was going to work.  He signaled to Bill to start pulling.  You could have cut the tension with a knife as Bill slowly eased the Farm Pro forward.  Inch by inch Benny and his tractor began to move through the water.  The only problem was, he wasn’t getting closer to shore.  As Bill pulled, Benny’s tractor headed downstream.  Benny started yelling and then it happened again.

SNAP!

The little bit of rope gave way, and the chain bounced onto the bank.  It was a wonder that no one got hurt again.

Well, they say the third time’s the charm.  It took another agonizing attempt using only the chain. This time Benny, beer held high, rode his steel steed from the muddy waters as Bill confidently pulled him to safety.

“Benny,” I heard someone in the crowd laughing, “you ought not to try to mow the pond! You know that tractor of yours don’t float.”

Gosh, I thought to myself, I could write a book about my madcap neighborhood, but who would believe it!

Just as I was thinking this, Mary Anne and Anna joined me.


“What chapter of the book is this going to be in?” Anna asked.

“Chapter seven,” I replied. “I’m titling it, ‘Tractor Pool.’”