Just not the kind I expected. Yesterday morning was horrible. I spent the day in a daze, and just wanted to go to bed and start new.
But Jasen's new skid steer arrived that afternoon. He calls it his Cadillac. I've pressured him into buying it, I admit. But he ices his foot for three days for every one day he run his old skid steer. The implement is controlled by your foot. We could invest in our retirement, or invest in his health. I vote health. And now he's beaming like a teenager with the hottest car in the high school parking lot.
This new beautiful orange beast is fully hand-controlled. There's no seat belt. It's a roller coaster apparatus that folds down. Even I was impressed. Air conditioning. Heat, A fold-down door. Bells and whistles I didn't know equipment could think of. This baby is impressive. And believe me, it is his baby. He's not working today, but I bet he'll find something to do with his new toy. Even if it's just driving it up and down the driveway.
And then I fell asleep. And dreamed I was driving to meet my family for dinner. In the Kubota skid steer. Turns out it doesn't run so well on the road. At least not in my dream. There were no breaks (yes, there are), I had to lie on my stomach to reach the controls (no, you don't), and people look at you like you're an idiot (yes, they would.)
The best part was when a cow looking just like Cream comes trotting along beside me in my skid steer. I call her name, but she doesn't turn her head. It's not my cow.
The convertible mustang tailgating me finally decides to pass, and the cow is sitting upright, just like the teenage boy beside her, acting like that was exactly where she was supposed to be. Even her hoof rested on the side window.
I woke up this morning sleeping on my stomach (I never do), with a horrible back ache. Turns out driving the Cadillac isn't as easy as one would think.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
My Husband Heard A Noise
My husband heard a noise this morning. Two cars, metal to metal, smashing. He was at the barn. He thought something exploded. The road is a quarter-mile from the barn. He heard the noise from a quarter-mile away. Glass smashing to concrete, tires deflating in the ditches, car parts flying and landing yards away.
I called 911. Jasen ran to the end of the driveway to see if he could help. He saw a van, back end in the ditch. The windshield shattered, the front end crushed like a can. An arm with a purple sweater hung out the window. And a pale, lifeless hand. He couldn't walk any closer. He didn't want to see.
I saw a young girl laying on the ground. Alone. It was a very Steel Magnolia's moment. That motherly instinct that doesn't see the carnage until you blink 30 minutes later and the tears begin.
The car behind the two sisters, 18 and 15, stopped. The man held his breath, and felt for a pulse. There wasn't any. No breath. No beat. Nothing. No deflated airbag. No hope. No life. She lived on our street, but I don't know her name. Somewhere, someone is wondering why she didn't show up for work, or come home. Somewhere, a family is changed forever.
The older sister is stuck inside her car. The airbag deflated in her lap, her door collapsed, her foot crushed beneath the break pedal.
Her younger sister got out, tried to walk around the car, and fell. The man stayed with the driver and told her what was happening as the sirens began. They still haven't stopped. I sat on the cold, wet road, and held a beautiful, scared girl's blood-spotted hand. Police cars swarmed to the scene. I lost count how many.
The girl was scared. Too young too see the purple sweater. Too young to see her sister trapped. Too young to lay in the glass-covered road, cold, scared, bleeding and in excruciating pain. Her back hurt.
Jasen told me not to go. He told me that once I saw the woman, I wouldn't be able to get it out of my head. And I can't. There was nothing anyone could do. Which is worse. No mouth-to-mouth, no chest compressions, nothing. Nothing we could do.
Paramedics called the nightingale, placed pads on her chest, and cancelled the call within 30 seconds. The van is draped in a white sheet. It took three hours to cut her out of the car and tow the van.
I told the girl not to look. Hold my hand. Wake up...don't close your eyes, sweetheart. Tell me about your school. I love your shoes. I wish I had curly hair like you. Yes, your sister is okay. Yes, I told her you were fine. Yes, they'll get her our. They just need a few tools. I know your back hurts. Just squeeze my hand. Close your eyes for a second. The ambulance is going to drive by. I'm going to cover your face, because there's glass in the road.
That's a neck brace. You won't be able to turn your head. Yes, it's going to hurt a little and it's going to be scary. No, they won't drop you. Just squeeze my hand. She winced and squeezed. That's the fire engine coming. They're going to get your sister out. She's fine. Yes, she's going to the hospital. Just like you. No, I don't know about the woman in the van.
Open your eyes. Don't fall asleep. This man is going to help you now. You have to let go of my hand. No, I can't hold on while they put you on the board. They're going to be very gentle, and strap you in. It's okay. You're okay. Your mom just got here. She's with your sister. I have to go now. You're welcome.
And I walked away. There was nothing more I could do. There's a helicopter above our home now. It's not the nightingale. I wish it was. It's the reporters. Walking down the street and flying in the air for the best shot. The best story.
The best story is the one they'll never tell. They'll go for the gore. The basics. Who caused what, who gets charged. And pictures. Pictures of crushed and cut cars. Tow trucks and lights. Television news by nature can't tell the whole story. That's what newspapers are, or were, for. Television is a 30-second snapshot of a much larger problem.
The best story is that it's 35 mph on my road. Cars don't crash that loud at 35 mph. A man died on the other end of our road last month. "Speed was a factor."
Speed is always a factor. Shillelagh means walking stick. A walking stick that twists and curves at the top, and is straight at the bottom. That's our road. It's beautiful. It winds through the woods, and follows the straight edges of the fields. It's surrounded by ditches larger than my 4Runner. And trees two feet from the road in the curves.
Bicyclists love it. Motorcycles and sports cars love it. And it's a main road to the high school.I hate it. It's a facade. Beautifully deadly.
I can hear the blades chopping in the air. But my mind is silent. A woman lost her life. Just like that. Crash. Bang. Smash. Gone. It doesn't matter who is at fault. Hopefully the young driver will walk away with a horrible memory, but not led away in handcuffs.
It's all about the speed. Our world already moves too quickly. Tonight I'm going to feed the cows, and listen to them slowly grind their hay. It relaxes me. Sounds almost like water lapping against a bulk head. They have no sense of time. They eat in a trance-like state. Docile and quiet. Comforting.
Slow down. Don't rush. Driving 55 mph down a 7.5 mile road will save you 30 seconds. Driving 35 mph down a 7.5 mile road will save your life.
I called 911. Jasen ran to the end of the driveway to see if he could help. He saw a van, back end in the ditch. The windshield shattered, the front end crushed like a can. An arm with a purple sweater hung out the window. And a pale, lifeless hand. He couldn't walk any closer. He didn't want to see.
I saw a young girl laying on the ground. Alone. It was a very Steel Magnolia's moment. That motherly instinct that doesn't see the carnage until you blink 30 minutes later and the tears begin.
The car behind the two sisters, 18 and 15, stopped. The man held his breath, and felt for a pulse. There wasn't any. No breath. No beat. Nothing. No deflated airbag. No hope. No life. She lived on our street, but I don't know her name. Somewhere, someone is wondering why she didn't show up for work, or come home. Somewhere, a family is changed forever.
The older sister is stuck inside her car. The airbag deflated in her lap, her door collapsed, her foot crushed beneath the break pedal.
Her younger sister got out, tried to walk around the car, and fell. The man stayed with the driver and told her what was happening as the sirens began. They still haven't stopped. I sat on the cold, wet road, and held a beautiful, scared girl's blood-spotted hand. Police cars swarmed to the scene. I lost count how many.
The girl was scared. Too young too see the purple sweater. Too young to see her sister trapped. Too young to lay in the glass-covered road, cold, scared, bleeding and in excruciating pain. Her back hurt.
Jasen told me not to go. He told me that once I saw the woman, I wouldn't be able to get it out of my head. And I can't. There was nothing anyone could do. Which is worse. No mouth-to-mouth, no chest compressions, nothing. Nothing we could do.
Paramedics called the nightingale, placed pads on her chest, and cancelled the call within 30 seconds. The van is draped in a white sheet. It took three hours to cut her out of the car and tow the van.
I told the girl not to look. Hold my hand. Wake up...don't close your eyes, sweetheart. Tell me about your school. I love your shoes. I wish I had curly hair like you. Yes, your sister is okay. Yes, I told her you were fine. Yes, they'll get her our. They just need a few tools. I know your back hurts. Just squeeze my hand. Close your eyes for a second. The ambulance is going to drive by. I'm going to cover your face, because there's glass in the road.
That's a neck brace. You won't be able to turn your head. Yes, it's going to hurt a little and it's going to be scary. No, they won't drop you. Just squeeze my hand. She winced and squeezed. That's the fire engine coming. They're going to get your sister out. She's fine. Yes, she's going to the hospital. Just like you. No, I don't know about the woman in the van.
Open your eyes. Don't fall asleep. This man is going to help you now. You have to let go of my hand. No, I can't hold on while they put you on the board. They're going to be very gentle, and strap you in. It's okay. You're okay. Your mom just got here. She's with your sister. I have to go now. You're welcome.
And I walked away. There was nothing more I could do. There's a helicopter above our home now. It's not the nightingale. I wish it was. It's the reporters. Walking down the street and flying in the air for the best shot. The best story.
The best story is the one they'll never tell. They'll go for the gore. The basics. Who caused what, who gets charged. And pictures. Pictures of crushed and cut cars. Tow trucks and lights. Television news by nature can't tell the whole story. That's what newspapers are, or were, for. Television is a 30-second snapshot of a much larger problem.
The best story is that it's 35 mph on my road. Cars don't crash that loud at 35 mph. A man died on the other end of our road last month. "Speed was a factor."
Speed is always a factor. Shillelagh means walking stick. A walking stick that twists and curves at the top, and is straight at the bottom. That's our road. It's beautiful. It winds through the woods, and follows the straight edges of the fields. It's surrounded by ditches larger than my 4Runner. And trees two feet from the road in the curves.
Bicyclists love it. Motorcycles and sports cars love it. And it's a main road to the high school.I hate it. It's a facade. Beautifully deadly.
I can hear the blades chopping in the air. But my mind is silent. A woman lost her life. Just like that. Crash. Bang. Smash. Gone. It doesn't matter who is at fault. Hopefully the young driver will walk away with a horrible memory, but not led away in handcuffs.
It's all about the speed. Our world already moves too quickly. Tonight I'm going to feed the cows, and listen to them slowly grind their hay. It relaxes me. Sounds almost like water lapping against a bulk head. They have no sense of time. They eat in a trance-like state. Docile and quiet. Comforting.
Slow down. Don't rush. Driving 55 mph down a 7.5 mile road will save you 30 seconds. Driving 35 mph down a 7.5 mile road will save your life.
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