Mom Left Dad Hanging

If the following had happened today, someone would have taken a video on their i-phone, posted it on Facebook, and in a few hours, it would have gone viral. Soon, people would be tweeting that the entire incident was staged. I will try to convey what happened using words.

A limb had died in the hackberry tree next to our house. It could have crashed through the dining room window if the wind blew it down. The ladder Mom used for washing windows wasn't tall enough to reach the tree limb. It would have been dangerous for dad to perch on top of the ladder while sawing above his head. He decided to bring the utility tractor into the yard and stand in the scoop of the front end loader. It would be much safer.

This restored beauty is very similar to the tractor Dad had when I was a kid.

                                     

Now obviously, he couldn't stand in the scoop and run the tractor controls to raise it at the same time. Nearly every time my mom operated machinery, something went wrong. Nevertheless, dad fearlessly situated the tractor under the offending limb and showed her which lever to use to raise and lower the hydraulic front loader. The scoop just did raise him high enough to comfortably saw the branch off.

My dad never liked objects with handles very much. He wasn't 'handy' at all. I've never seen him do carpentry work. But he was using a rip saw on the limb, so I think the saw must have been something my grandfather left in the garage when he moved to town and our family moved into the farmhouse.

Dad braced himself by wrapping his left arm around the tree limb. His back was to the tractor. The little Ford began running very rough, coughing and sputtering. I think my mom was giving it too much choke. If someone reading this thinks they know what was wrong with the tractor, please don't try to educate me.

The interval between coughs grew until the engine shuddered and died altogether. When that happened, the hydraulic pump also stopped working, and the loader began drifting away from my dad's feet. I'm sure he noticed that the tractor was going to die, but I don't think he expected hydraulic oil to leak back to the reservoir and let the loader down so soon. He should have turned loose of the tree and rode the scoop back to the ground. Instead, with his only means of support obeying the laws of gravity, he was left dangling by one arm from a dead limb. 

It was too high to let go and hope he landed on his feet like a cat. If he had, he would have struck some part of the loader. He dropped the saw and held on with his other hand.

I was outside watching the operation from the safety of the front step. When the tractor died I heard Mom say "Oh." It wasn't her conversational voice, and it wasn't a scream. It didn't sound like 'oh dear.' Or 'Oh My God!' It was a low guttural sound like a monster had fought its way out of her stomach, got caught deep down in her throat, and erupted out of her mouth. "OHH!"

I'm sure terrible scenarios of Dad being seriously injured and questions like how long he could hold onto the limb and would the limb break and should she tell Lisa to dial 0 and ask the operator to send the fire department and why did the tractor die and will it start again and is it out of gas all flitted across her panicked thoughts.

My folks didn't have the type of personalities to remain calm in a crisis. Amazingly, my father kept his composure and managed to explain to my mother how to restart the tractor and get the scoop back under his feet, all the while clinging to the rotten limb.

It all ended fine. The limb was cut down, the house wasn't damaged, and Dad never asked Mom to operate the tractor again.

Once they recovered from the scare, they each had fun with the story. Dad teased her that the only thing she could think of to say was 'Oh.' Mom liked to say to customers at her job, "Did I tell you about the time I hung my husband in a tree?"

Book Excerpt

    Following are a few paragraphs lifted out of my book Tatrice.  

“This morning you answered all my questions correctly. Naturally, zombies don’t exist. And vampires and werewolves are over-romanticized stories based loosely on the lives of extremely rare human anomalies.”

He spoke with assurance, as though he had firsthand knowledge of these things. Of course, his statements dovetailed with my beliefs, so I forgave him. I practiced swimming underwater until my eyes bugged out and I shot to the surface for air. It was sort of hard to do out of the water. He inhaled deeply at the same instant.

“I’ve been searching for a while to find a compatible individual to help me write my book. The last person I asked about immortality gushed on and on about a character in that popular vampire series. Your answer, however, caught me by surprise. You know how to think—a trait many people regretfully lack these days. I’ll supply the information, and you’ll arrange it into a logical, believable narrative.”

Although that was quite a compliment, I refrained from accepting the offer on the spot.

“If you’ve finished, I have a few questions for you,” I said briskly. “My boss, JJ, has the idea you’re filthy rich and accustomed to getting what you want with no questions asked. I can’t figure out how he arrived at that conclusion since there’s no public data about you. He said you told him, and he took you at your word, which is out of character for him.” 

Mr. Bonfiglio flashed me a sly smile. “I’m known for my persuasiveness. You didn’t ask my age. Would you like to know it?”

I shot him a look that could have meant “Go ahead and tell me” or “Don’t bother.”

“I don’t know my actual age,” he confessed. “I have no memory of my childhood, parents, or growing to adulthood. When I designed the Sphinx, I’d existed for untold centuries.”

I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms.

 I don’t know where I came from. I know I’m human; I’ve had my DNA tested. It’s normal: twenty-three pairs of chromosomes on a double helix.”

My fingers itched for my computer. There had to be a name for this man’s delusion. I leaned toward him and uncross my arms. “Okay, I’ll play along. Perhaps you should look into past-life regression.”

“Naturally you don’t believe me.” He drew in a deep breath.

While I rehearsed what I’d say to JJ at our next meeting, I mentally held my nose and sat cross-legged at the bottom of the pool. As a child, I’d often done this in reality when my dad wanted me to practice the piano. I could hold my breath long enough to make my parents panic. My brother and I had come along later in their lives and they tended to be over protective.  I let my hand drift away from my face. It took all my concentration to stay underwater instead of relaxing into a dead man’s float. 

Just then, Mr. Bonfiglio slumped over and slid to the floor. 

Abandoning my underwater fantasy, I jumped to his side and shook his shoulder. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t hit his head or had a seizure. He had turned boneless (figuratively, of course) and oozed out of his chair. Not seeing a telephone in the room, I snatched my purse from an end table and dug for my cell phone. I was punching 911 when he grabbed it from me. I let out a startled yelp.

“That won’t be necessary, Donna. I’m fine now.”

He took several deep breaths; I wondered if he was hyperventilating. He repeated his assurances, even though he remained on the floor. Although he exhibited no telltale signs of sickness, I didn’t have any experience with people fainting. I continued to squat at his side but let him hold my phone. I was too suspicious of him to reach for it, which would put me in a position where he could grab my hands and pull me to the floor. Instead I slid my hand into my pocket and thumbed the lid off the tube of pepper spray. The swimmer transformed into a skunk with its tail raised. 

“Do you have a medical condition that makes you lose consciousness, Mr. Bonfiglio?”

He shook his head and gave me yet another of those long, searching stares. Why do I keep finding myself in situations where this man can look up my skirt? I tried to point my knees away from his face without falling over. 

“Bella Donna, if you insist on performing all these mental swimming exercises, could you please refrain from the ones where you hold your breath? I simply can’t breathe when you do that.”

I lost my balance and fell on my butt. I imagined myself riding on a porpoise. 

Mr. Bonfiglio rewarded me with an awed expression.

                                 

“How are you doing this?” Although I didn’t believe in mind readers, this man might have been able to persuade me.

                                                                                   

“Normally I’m empathetic to the emotions of others. Sometimes I can even see their aura if it’s strong. With you, however, I hear and see your internal conversations. Do you know your muscles actually move when you go ‘swimming’?”

“No,” I whispered, stunned.   

                                                           

“How many years have you been doing this?” he asked.

After rising gracefully to his feet, he helped me up from the spotless floor and we retook our seats. 

“For a while.” A horrifying thought occurred to me. “When you made that face when I first arrived…”

“You were thinking about bikini waxes,” he crowed.

It's Sedimentary My Dear

Sometimes people gift me with rocks. 

Growing up, we always looked forward to It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown never got any goodies in his Halloween treat bag. Poor guy. As Halloween evening wore on, he grew resigned to his ill luck. While the other kids in the Peanuts gang, minus Linus and Sally who are in the pumpkin patch waiting for the Great Pumpkin, excitedly exclaim over their cookies and candied apples, Charlie Brown quietly says, "I got a rock." 

So, I wasn't surprised when, a few years ago, my dad gave me a rock with my name on it for Christmas. My brother received the same gift with his name on it. We fulfilled our dad's expectations by looking sad and telling each other:  "I got a rock."  We really were unhappy when it was time to lug them home from his house.

 Here are a few of my favorite rocks.

 Large deposits of limestone prove Kansas was once a sea. Central Kansas is famous for stone posts. Turn one on its side and, voila, people know your name, or the name of your business, or your favorite sports team.

 The grinding wheel is cut from sandstone rock.

The two large, shapeless rocks at both ends below are also Kansas limestone.

  


I've been dragging rocks home with me for years. Mostly from Colorado. Sometimes I pack less so there is more room for an extra specimen or two. 

Rule 16: If I can get it to the vehicle and load it up by myself, I can take it home.

My rock collection/display isn't finished. I think I need to fill in the gaps with some sand or black lava rock. So far the gophers haven't chewed through the weed barrier.

Rainbow rock. Kind of reminds me of a Tequila Sunrise. 🍹

I think the pattern in the little guy at top left looks like a whale. 







 

Actually, the design formed is a nice example of Liesegang rings.

Texas holey rock, or honeycomb limestone. Apparently, this is popular in home aquariums.

Sandstone ribbon rock.

Iron oxides, manganese oxides, and other impurities can cause bright and contrasting colors in sandstone.

Banding is due to layers of deposits with differing characteristics. Sandstone is formed in many deposits, and the resulting layers can be very different from previous layers.








See the patina, or desert varnish, on the dark rock on the left?


Sometimes the sand is courser or finer than the previous layer, and this difference causes the banding.






 

 Whenever I go for a hike, my eyes are usually on the ground instead of the scenery. Besides my rock collection, I've come home with a handful of arrowheads and points and functional tools. 

Technically, these are a continuation of the rock collection since they are knapped from chert and flint. 

Rocks aren't necessarily objects to craft into tools and structures. They can be weapons. 

I don't think the shape of this one is coincidental. The smaller end of this five-pound rock fits comfortably in the hand for up close, personal combat. It could also be used as a pestle. Attach a stout piece of wood to the waist, and it's a hammer or the infamous blunt object.  Attach a length of leather, and it is as effective but weightier than a bar of soap in a tube sock, for all the guys who remember carrying those in their trunk.