Comparing Scars, Chapter Two

A promise is a promise, so here goes with Part Be of Friday's story. Cue the 4 minute filler of flashbacks to last week's episode, narrated by The Movie Trailer Guy and featuring scary music and DAH dit Duuuuuuuuh! orchestra hits when the cliffhanger is shown again... So, I needed to find a surgeon. I went back to my friend and asked about the next step. He again scribbled a name on paper and sent me on my way. I found the office downtown, and took the elevator up to the 4th floor. After a reasonable wait, I was ushered into a cookie-cutter exam room. The nurse gave no instructions, just pulled the door shut behind her. My cell was furnished extravagantly, with an adjustable paper-covered exam table (with the optional pull-out step stool and heated stirrups - ask me how I know), a hand sink, the fun little swivel stool, and a hard, magazine encrusted park bench. After tiring of making balloon animals with the exam gloves, I tried to make myself comfortable with Better Homes Than Yours on the bench. Hours turned into days, and eventually a nondescript clerk-looking man burst into the room. He read my name off a chart, and I offered a friendly handshake. He looked at me as though I were presenting a freshly pressed turd, and gripped the chart defensively. Well, this is a fine way to begin a meaningful relationship, I thought. He nodded toward the exam table, and I obediently hopped up. Silently, he grabbed my hand and again I got the flipper-wiggling, finger-twisting inspection. He had me squeeze a squeeze-o-meter, and do a little range of motion exercise. He scribbled something in his chart, nodded in my general direction, and left. Just like that, in under 3 minutes and 10 words, he disappeared. I sat there momentarily, wondering if there was more to this circus, and if there was, when do I get to see the monkeys? After a few minutes, I poked my head out the door and took a brave step into the hall. I found the reception station, and asked the nearest person what I should do next. She looked as though she was between auditions for Jabba the Hutt's body double. "Who's your doctor?" she gurgled brusquely. "Dr. Moppett," I replied. She rolled her eyes and pushed her heroic chair back from the desk. Grumbling and staggering on impossibly short legs, she waddled over to a pocket file on the wall. "Damn Moppett can't drop a chart on my desk to save his life, the blanketyblank motherfather bastard, blank." She found my paperwork and added up my total. Cha-CHING! $40 for me, and $160 for my insurance for this "consultation." I avoided doing the math, because I knew it would not help my teeth-grinding. I was pretty sure, however, that was a metric assload of dollars per minute. She flipped open a calendar, and told me I would be having surgery in two weeks, first thing in the morning, and don't eat anything after midnight the night before. I took my papers and shuffled out, instilled with confident joy that my problem had a solution. The big day finally arrived, and I walked into the hospital ready to be fixed. No, wait, not fixed. Repaired is the word I'm looking for. I was fitted with a professionally tailored hospital gown, with three sets of drawstrings. I complained that the color was all wrong, but the nurse secretly flipped me the bird and told me to deal with it. I came out of the green room ready for the big event, and was shown to one of a row of beds. The anesthesiologist came in and introduced himself. He was a large, friendly man with great bushy eyebrows and a strong handshake. He said he'd do his best to keep me asleep and not kill me. I appreciated that. He left the room, and Mrs. Spiffy and I sat talking idly. A guy shuffled in, looking around aimlessly while nurses chatted by their desk. I noticed he was standing about 10 paces away, staring at us. I asked, "Can I help you?" "Make sure you mark which arm you want me to work on," he said abruptly. The recognition circuits started firing in my head. This was the man who was going to perform some healing magic on me. "Oh, hi Dr. Moppett! I didn't recognize you without the lab coat. This is Mrs. Spiffy," I said, trying to be friendly. He snapped his head to the right, scanned her face, her butt, and her chest, then walked out of the room. We looked at each other and shrugged. I hoped that all his missing people skills were focused into his sawing and sewing hands. I enthusiastically wrote 'This One!!' surrounded by arrows on the correct arm, and 'Do Not Enter' on the other. In great big block letters. Dr. Eyebrows returned, collected a nurse, and shooed Mrs. Spiffy to the waiting room. He chatted with me as fluorescent lights passed overhead, telling me about his fishing exploits and golf game. We arrived in a frigid meat locker, with all kinds of equipment, beeping monitors, whirring machines, hoses and wires dangling everywhere. I was centered under the big surgical lamps, and Dr. E started an IV. He went on talking happily about this and that, and said, "By the way, you may taste metal. I'll see you when you wake up." I giggled groggily, smacking my lips at the flavor of tin, and melted into silence. The only sensation I can recall is the utter chill in my well marked arm. I awoke seconds later in the recovery room. I was comfy, pain free, and ready to go home. I began to sit up, and only then did I notice the family of swine sitting on my chest. The room darkened, I heard squealing behind my ears, and occasionally a little pink piglet would do a breaststroke around my field of vision. I made a mental note to find out what kind of drugs these were, and see if they could be found on my local streetcorner. Eventually the loopy visions faded, to be replaced by dull, throbbing pain. The checkout nurse plopped a packet of instructions and prescriptions on my belly and told me to get dressed because they had someone waiting for my bed. We were finally in our littlebitty Geo, buzzing up the highway. It was summer, and I was laying my head back trying to drink in the last of the really good hallucinations. My right arm was propped on the open windowsill, and I was enjoying the summer breeze. Girl, in the back seat, realized her door wasn't latched properly. She waited until we stopped at a red light, opened her door, and slammed it. Neither she nor I noticed that my fingers had slipped between the door and the jamb when she opened it. Suddenly, my left arm didn't hurt so much. I let out a moan like a birthing cow, knowing that I would soon be sporting multi-colored fingers. Girl felt terrible, and apologized profusely. I told her it was ok, and not her fault - but she may have to feed me my gruel since neither hand would be working for a while. A couple weeks later, I went for my follow up appointment with Dr. Personality. He removed my stitches, and asked me what kind of insurance I had. "Why do you ask?" I asked. "Oh, no reason. Just need to get you set up for physical therapy," he mumbled. "Funny you should mention that... See, I was just downsized the day after the surgery. I don't have insurance anymore." Suddenly, the appointment was over. He said I should go across the hall for scar-care instructions. I came in while the therapist was finishing up with another patient. She helped him apply some cream and a special pad to his incision site, wrapped it, and explained how to take care of it until she saw him again next week. He left smiling, and I was invited to sit. As we were introducing ourselves, Dr. Moppett leaned in the doorway and shouted, "No insurance!" and raced down the hall. We looked at each other awkwardly. She cut a little square out of a silicone pad and handed it to me with an Ace bandage. "Here. Keep this on if you don't want your scar to be ugly. Good luck." And with that, our business was finished. My souvenir of the experience is a great conversation starter. Usually, people will come up to me and ask where I got my arm and who sewed it on. I just smile, knowing that at least I can roll down my windows if I want to.

No, You Did Not Just Say That

Before we get back into the Regularly Scheduled Post (remind me not to do continuations, because starting again feels like pulling on a cold, wet swimsuit), I have to tell a little story. Boy had invited a group of friends to go for pizza and bowling, a last little party before school starts again. He had 4 young ladies show up, and we went to the local bowl-a-rama. A good time was had by all, and we returned home to bake up the pizzas. During the meal, one of the girls commented on the very very short dress she contemplated wearing to the party. The girl next to her said, "Boy, I'm glad you didn't wear that. It was windy today." To which Mrs. Spiffy blurted, "Why? Because it would whistle?" Things just weren't quite the same after that. I couldn't breathe, the poor girl next to me nearly choked on a pizza bone, and the other two girls just looked at each other, not sure they heard what they thought they heard. Mrs. Spiffy was becoming vaguely aware that she said something funny, while Boy, turning several shades of pink, sat slowly shaking his head. Has that ever happened to you? Do tell!

Blog Meme

This was addressed to 'Resident' by Old Lady of the Hills. 1-Do you like the look and the contents of your blog? Yep. It's plain on purpose, so you can be sneaky and browse at work. Content is growing bit by bit; eventually there will be enough for any stalker to find and ravage me at will. 2-Does your family know about your blog? Mostly, yes. I've been advised that my kids will read it, so I'd better clean up the language. Which is a partial motivation for doing this; I always appreciated little tidbits of insight into my Dad's life and times, and I'd like my kiddos to be able to see what it was like to be me. And count their damn blessings. 3-Can you tell your friends about your blog? Yes. Not so much with coworkers. Someday I may want to write copiously about them, for they give me much potential material. 4-Do you just read the blogs of those who comment on your blog? I have a regular circuit of blogs I read, divided into 'A-List' and 'B-List'. The A's get a visit every day, and I couldn't imagine a day without reading them. I see the B's at least weekly, and that's mostly because the slackers don't post every day. That list is growing rapidly, I'm finding more and more sites worth repeat visits. And I do visit commenters, because this venue is infinitely more fun and worthwhile when people comment. 5-Did your blog positively affect your mind? Absolutely. Not only am I smiling more, but I'm paying more attention to my life (partly because there's blogworthy material everywhere). Keeping in touch and making friends this way has been so cool. 6-What does the number of visitors to your blog mean? It's humbling to see the counter move. I like to write, but I love it when people enjoy it enough to read. Very unexpected to see this many visits, especially as a beginner. 7-Do you imagine what other bloggers look like? Sure, just like I imagine what radio hosts look like (and I expect to be wrong). Unless they post a photo, I assume their avatar is a professional artist's rendering. No avatar? Then you look like the Where's Waldo dude to me. 8-Do you think blogging has any real benefit? Yes. Just like newspapers or books or friendship have a real benefit. Participation = value. 9-Do you think that the blogosphere is a stand alone community separated from the real world? Nobody interesting spends their time exclusively in blogland (that I know of). The engaging bits of blogs come from well-shared personal stories and observations. 10-Do some political blogs scare you? Do you avoid them? I ain't skeered. I haven't run across many political blogs; it's not so much avoid as focus on what I like: People. I do have political beliefs and passions, and there are plenty of sources for info and opinion. Blogs aren't my preferred source. 11-Do you think that criticizing your blog is useful? Feedback is valuable, I regard it as a useful tool for improvement. And, no matter what is offered, I have the power to take it or leave it. 12-Have you ever thought about what would happen to your blog in case you died? Yep. 13-Which blogger had the greatest impression on you? Far and away, without question, Tiff. My mentor (there has GOT to be a better word than 'blogmomma') and inspiration, someday I'd like to be that good. She makes me smile an awful lot, and makes me wish I'd got a better education. And, I'm imagining 'blogger' as plural, because this is my damn site and there are more noteworthy influences. Jeff Kay: content-rich, dependable (mostly) and hilariously funny. He introduced me to this world through his minions of commenters. Wordnerd, who is kind, direct, friendly, and brilliant; a woman chock-full of influence. Tracy Lynn, genius and evil (and nicer than she'd like you to know). Kingfisher, who is teaching me to critically notice my writing. JC, who needs more words like 'wow' to describe her, and makes me want to write more seriously. Kenju, generous with words and rich with friends. Renn, who can sidle up to the comment bar and make you spit out your water while she smirks at you. Beck, who makes me hug my kids more. All with hearts o' gold and a sack full of good humor (or humour, if you prefer). 14-Which blogger do you think is the most similar to you? Gosh this place would be boring if we were all like me. I'm busy trying to copy my idols without getting caught, so if you're like me, you're mimicking an impressionist. Which is dumb, since you are probably fascinating on your own. 15-Name a song you want to listen to? Talk about a left turn - this question doesn't seem to fit. But, I didn't write it, so, um, I want to listen to thousands of hours' worth of stuff I've missed over the years. Heck, I just discovered Oingo Boingo and they're from MY era. I guess this type of thing isn't complete unless there's some sort of tagging ritual. If you've been named above, I'd love to see your answers. If you're not named and doing it, let me know so I can visit! Body parts will not drop off and satellites will not fall from the sky if you don't play along. But, you won't get that $50 gift certificate from Applebee's, either. Better safe than sorry, so get started.

Comparing Scars

This is one of those days where I got nothin'. However, I've not yet earned the right to get writer's block... So, in the spirit of coming up with something, and I'm sure you've noticed already but are too polite to ask, here's the story behind that stylish scar on my left elbow. It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning crackled and last week's newspapers were swirling in the streets, a portent of doom and destruction. Then suddenly, nothing happened. The next day, I was visiting a jobsite in the company truck. It was summery and pleasant, and I wanted some fresh air. I reached down to the little power window levers, and nothing happened again. I looked. My fingers were touching the button. I was moving my arm back and forth in the appropriate window-activating manner. However, my pinky and ring finger were as useless as a dead dog's tongue. They just lolled over the button as if filled with marshmallow fluff. Naturally, this caused me to raise an eyebrow and grunt. I reached over and lowered the window with my still-working right hand, while shaking and examining my left as though it were a stopped watch (don't worry, I can steer with my knees). Since the malfunction was new, and so far hadn't interfered with typing or playing bass, I made a mental note and promptly forgot about it. Months later at a routine physical, I asked my doctor about it. He grabbed my hand, turned it over a few times, wiggled my fingers, and pronounced it "Fine." Oh, okay then. I guess this happens sometimes to people then? Digits quit responding? What if this happens at a very inconvenient time, such as rock climbing, or nose picking? What then, Dr. Smarty Pants? Not quite satisfied, but not smart enough to question a Doctor, I joined the herd in the bill-paying line. I decided to do nothing about it, because, after all, he's a Doctor. (Incidentally, do you know what they call people who graduate at the bottom of their class in medical school? Yep. Doctor.) Later that week, I saw a friend of mine while out and about. He happens to be a physician, but that never bothered me. He's around my age, has a long, black ponytail, and an easy laugh. We were casually chatting and he must have noticed me twitching my limp fingers, because he asked me about it. I said, "Oh, it's nothing. My Doctor said so." He snorted a knowing snort and asked to look at it. He did the hand turning, finger wiggling thing, then muttered something about a hammer. I jerked my hand back, shielding it from the sudden menace. "Whaddaya mean, a hammer?" I said suspiciously. "No, no - a reflex hammer. I didn't bring it with me." I wondered how often he carried it around just looking for someone to thwang. "Ah, this will do," he said, brandishing a TV remote control. He proceeded to thump my arm in various places, looking for some kind of reaction (besides a wince). After a particularly vigorous whack, the batteries bouncing across the room, he said he knew what the problem was. "You have nerve damage. Here, go see this specialist for testing." Grateful to have some explanation, I made an appointment. I arrived at a little office next door to a popcorn store. The smell was intoxicating, better than a theater and stronger than a carnival - but without the vomit. I was greeted by a nervous looking man with a faint accent. He showed me into the exam room, which was simply the back half of the main office. It turns out he was the only one there, and would be conducting the test. He strapped me into a chair and suggested I relax while rubbing my entire arm down with an oversized alcohol wipe. He placed an electrode on the back of my hand, and grabbed a large needle. With a wire attached to it. My eyes widened. Significantly. "Uh, what's that for?" I asked conversationally. "Oh, this? This is really cool. We'll get to listen to your nerve activity. If everything is working right, it should sound like static on the radio. If not, you'll be able to tell the difference by the sound." I decided to take his word for it, since I was strapped into a chair. Besides, my friend sent me here - how bad could it be? (This may seem like a tangent, and that's because it probably is): Once when I was young, I was walking in the woods with a friend. I brushed against a cow fence, and let out a little yelp. It was enough of a jolt to get my attention, but not really painful. I told my friend about it, and he'd never seen one before. He touched it, and yelped as well. I wondered aloud what would happen if you peed on it. Suddenly, I heard a zipping sound. I backed far away, because even though I didn't know what may happen, I did not want to get wet. His warbling, pathetic scream echoed through the pines and haunts me to this day. I was reminded of that moment when Needleman began his vile experiments on me. At first it was just uncomfortable: A gentle prodding with the pointy electrode, and a tingling electrical current coursed through my arm. Soon he escalated the prodding to real pokes, and he encouraged me to look the other way if I didn't like the sight of blood. The sticking and zapping soon went far beyond discomfort; It was like holding onto that cow fence with a wet hand, while being attacked by one very persistent and angry hornet. Sure enough, he found several nerves that sounded like a dial-up internet connection, all hissing and clicks and honks, the sound of muscle instructions and pain. He moved the needle to another site, and there was silence, broken by an occasional crackle. He was like a scientist at SETI, intently searching for communication from the inky depths of space. He jumped up with a very mad-scientistlike "Ah HA!", leaving the needle dangling in my arm, my hand twitching like the severed frog's leg in a science class experiment. He grabbed a Sharpie and marked a big 'X' at the needle site, and proceeded to make tracks down the length of my arm, tracing the bad nerve. Eventually, he mopped up the blood, made some notes on a chart, and said I should take them back to my surgeon. Surgeon?!? Crap! I'd just watched a TV marathon about When Surgeons Attack: The Gory Years. They leave Rollexes, pointy things, and sponges in people's innards, show up drunk, leave in the middle of a procedure to go golfing, lop off the wrong parts - and I couldn't have that. Since I'm out of time, someday I'll tell... The Rest Of The Story. Good Day.

Odds & Ends II

Most of you visiting this site already know Jeff Kay and his antics. If'n you don't, go read The West Virginia Surf Report. The man is a comic genius, a hero of mine, and the very reason I've appeared on this strange little stage. In case you're wondering how I stay so well informed, it's because his site has replaced the newspaper, TV news, and Fark as my main source of content. He always has interesting tales to tell, brilliant descriptions, and plenty to make you retract your jaw and say, "WTF?" And, don't forget to read and play in the comments - sometimes the best laughs are there. And occasionally, a weight loss smackdown (see comments). I have until July 4, 2007 (important detail, the year) to drop 35 pounds, or else. ================= Speaking of which, I'm well on my way to a healthyish me. Got my oatmeal and carrots, a bit of soup for lunch, and have cleansed my office of all chocolate. I've always been good at taking on water; better than the Titanic, because I still float. An Aquafina bottle is always with me, and I drain from 2 to 4 liters every day. They say that's supposed to help, but for the last two years the needle has still been hovering in the King Size range of the old shipping scale. So, maybe it's lifestyle. Loafing in front of the teevee, reading a book, and napping are fairly low-impact forms of exercise. So far it hasn't been working. I've taken up a light routine of pushups, stretches, and once in a great while, with much weeping and gnashing of teeth, crunches. I've tried the exercise ball, but it's been murder on my self esteem. I lock the office doors, put on the DVD, and try to mimic the svelte lady in a color-coordinated stretchy body suit. She says sit on the ball, I drape on it. She says form a tabletop with my legs and touch the ball to my knees, and I form a massage-o-matic shaking bed complete with jiggling magic fingers. Sometimes I'm able to hold the ball under my heft for the whole workout. Sometimes it escapes. Time to find a new plan. Jogging? Hate it. Walking? Takes too long. Long rides in the car? I could do that, but somehow I think it would depurp the fetus. Ah, yes! The Amazing Herbal Supplements! I haven't tried those in years, but while mildly effective at $60 a bottle, I felt like my slimy brain was simmering in a crock pot most days. I think I'm going to have to hire me a personal trainer if there's a prayer at winning this thing. Maybe she'll teach me to swim like a frog, run like an aardvark, and dance like a Muppet. I can see the skinny new me now, showing off poolside. One thing's for certain, the competition is hogging all the cheerleaders and I'm gonna need some help.

Jerry

"Our" president came home last night. I happened to be eastbound on the highway to a contractor's office, when traffic began slowing and moving to the shoulder. A helicopter wheeled overhead, and a mob of police cars from every agency whizzed by on the westbound side. One after another, lights silently flashing, state and local cops, county deputies, federal police, secret service. I realized it was President Ford's final motorcade, and joined the cars on the shoulder. He had just arrived at the airport that bears his name, and was on his way for the last day of viewing before the funeral. He will be buried in a beautiful garden beside his museum downtown. Gerald Ford is known as 'Jerry' around here, a pretend familiarity perpetuated by all the locals who would like to have been his friends. He was a local and U of M football star, represented Grand Rapids for some 25 years in congress, and had finished his time in the White House before I reached voting age. He lived in California after the Presidency, where he could golf year 'round. Whenever he returned to West Michigan, it was a rare and major event. Universal adoration is one of my goals. World domination? Not so much. Great fame? Could do without it. I know it's a tad ridiculous to hope for, because I am certain that someday, somewhere, I may ruffle somebody's feathers. I might even piss you right off. Jerry came as close to that goal as anyone I've ever seen, regardless of politics. I have not heard a single retrospective that fails to mention his good character, likability, and genuine care for people. The contractor I met groused about how liberal he had become, thought California had affected his thinking. Compared to West Michigan's conservative sensibilities, everybody is a flaming liberal. I just hope that I can demonstrate the kind of care that makes people want to be my friend, like Jerry did.

Can You Spot The Horse's Ass?

"Nothing's as good for the inside of a man, as the outside of a horse." -Ronald Reagan It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood. For December, it was unbelievable. Sunny, not a cloud in the sky, and high 40's made for a perfect horse-riding day. That is, if you're a horse-rider. As I've said before, I was born to loaf. But, I'm up for most any adventure, and the crisp spring-like air was enticing. There were about 15 horses and riders making the trip, coming from three local barns. The plan: Meet at our friends' place to saddle up a batch of beasts, with another couple of horses and riders being trailered in. Then, take a leisurely 3-mile walk to another ranch and meet the rest of the group. From there, trails and scenic beauty were said to be found in abundance. I knew it was going to be trouble when Mrs. Spiffy and her sister asked me, "Do you mind riding a gaited horse?" while stifling evil laughter. Since I have no idea what that means (but a vague idea it would get me laughed at) I said I'd try it. I met my mount, we exchanged pleasantries, and I installed a saddle. I guess that's supposed to be called "tacking up," but this ain't the frickin' Old West. While other riders fiddled and adjusted and readied their rides, I took my chestnut colored model out in the front yard for a test drive. This particular horse really likes trees. With great, spreading, low branches. Just the right height to scrape an annoying parasite off a horse's back. Well, he didn't completely succeed, but my hat wound up on the ground just before I could whoa the raging animal from the volleyball net. He would have tried to jump it, I'm certain. I climbed down, retrieved my hat, and tried to re-mount. At this point, I discovered two things: My enormous feet didn't quite fit into the stirrups, and apparently horses have this trick of sucking in wind when you install the saddle. When they exhale, the saddle gets loose. More comfortable for one of us, I'm sure. When I applied some weight, it spun clean around the horse, and I was trying to sit sideways for about 3 nanoseconds. After some belt-tightening and dirty looks (for both of us), we were on our way. All the way up the long driveway, the horses were as excited as puppies - they wanted to run and frolic, and all these riders and reins were raining on their parade. Much head-throwing, whinnying, and stomping finally gave way to a relaxed walk on the tree-lined road. For most of us. My horse decided it simply did not like me. It walked diagonally, then backwards, then fastslowfastslow, with a little buck and snort thrown in for good measure. I dismounted and gave him a lecture, the other riders far ahead. He stood as solidly as he could, raised his head, looked down his long nose at me, and neighed his own disgust with the situation. When one of the pack leaders finally looked around, they saw me walking my horse like a kid with a flat bicycle tire. They decided some rearranging was in order, and had me trade with my niece's boyfriend. His horse, Blue, was supposedly more good-natured. Plus, the saddle would fit better, and I could fit my toes in the stirrups. We continued on, and it seemed to be a good decision. Except for the time my former horse wanted to take a tour of the ditch outside the cemetery. We towed them out, and all was well. Passing cars slowed and waved, everyone was smiling and enjoying the day. I was beginning to find muscles that were previously undetectable, but the fun factor outweighed the discomfort for now. When we rounded a bend, the horses again became very excited. They knew this place, and there were other horses and fun trails and experienced riders here. Even the expert riders had a hard time keeping things under control. Blue, I'd heard in the last few minutes, needs to know who's boss. At this moment, she decided she was, and bolted. We flew down the long, winding drive, with me flopping against the saddle wildly. Blue finally and reluctantly agreed not to kill me, and we slipped into a bouncing trot. For those not accustomed to having manparts, this is very hard on the ol' twiggenberries. A half mile of that was enough to make me put my foot down. I would release the beast into a vacant fenced yard and babysit while the rest of the group went on their ride. Blue was downright pissed off at this turn of events. She wanted to kill me in the worst way on that trail, and I foiled her horsey little plan. She pawed and stomped, paced and bucked, whinnying and growling as the group filed off on their adventure. I told her sagely that if she had behaved better, we'd both be on that ride. I got comfortable on a trailer, cranked up my MP3 player, and tried to nap. Every so often, Blue would sneak up behind me and release a thundering Neigh, trying to wake me. I pretended not to notice, making her even more upset. I smiled and pulled my hat down further. I awoke to find two of our party returning. "Did you kill off the others?" I was about to ask, but thought better of it when I saw my dear friend's tears. She had been dropped from her nasty, mean horse, and was feeling some pain. Her version of the story is Here. Don't believe the parts you may see about me. Lies, all of it. Her horse was much worse than mine, so she saddled Blue up and went out to try again. Eventually, the posse returned and shared stories. A busload of small children and their families arrived to take escorted horsie rides. Marisol limped over to a picnic table and we sat while they posed for pictures and walked up and down the drive. Our conversation was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. A petite young girl was hurtling down the driveway, partly on the back of a sprinting horse. She slid to the right, body parallel to the ground for a heart-stopping four strides. She lost her grip just as the horse crossed from pavement to grass, and she tumbled to a stop as the horse barreled through the crowd right toward my perch. Someone got hold of its reins, and the little girl was checked out. She was dusty and shaken, but unhurt. She climbed up on a fresh, presumably tame horse and took another walk around the plantation, to the applause of all gathered. I don't think I'll be trying this adventure again soon. I prefer my rides not to have the option, "To whoa, or not to whoa."