|Yellow Roses are My Favorite.|
It all started last Monday, or was it Tuesday? Well, no matter. The old oak seat to the upstairs throne suddenly lurched sideways as I was attempting to disembark. There are two identical thrones with two identical oak seats in our house. The upstairs bearing many more riders than the one in the downstairs as there is much more living going on these days up than down.
If any of you have ever suffered this indignity you know just exactly what I am talking about. We had assumed the "pin" and "hinge" were metal as that is how they were disguised to look. BUT NO! Treachery, they were plastic, (Just like the car that hit me as I was driving my old 1989 Fleetwood years ago. Needless to say who walked away unblemished in that tussle!) Well anyway, it is a most disconcerting situation to find yourself in when at every turn you are about to lurch to the left or right with a bit of a bump.
My hero and husband of 39 years rode heroically to the rescue in his shiny black S-10 pickup on Thursday, Valentine's Day. He not only appeared with a dozen of my favorite flowers, yellow roses, but a glowing new seat for our upstairs commode, which he promptly installed.
This having been traumatic enough I never dreamed another cataclysm of equal calamity loomed near!
The next day started quietly with our normal coffee and a kiss good-by as Brian left for his shop. In my wisdom I had decided to give the house a top to bottom vacuuming. After finishing upstairs I wrestled the upright sweeper a step at a time down the full flight of stairs connecting the two floors of our home. carefully balancing it as I swept one stair at a time until I reached the bottom. There I found the rag rug runner and decided it was due to be washed and I gathered it up and went for the door that sits between the family room and the garage. Being occupied with my thoughts I tossed the rug onto the floor of the garage, stepped back, and slammed the door. HARD.
It is unclear at this point exactly what misstep I had taken, only that there had been one as I had somehow slammed the door on my poor little third toe! I cannot tell you how it came to be my third toe only that it was. Great throbbing commenced as did bleeding! In hindsight I actually start laughing at what a sight I must have been as I hopped about barefoot (as I almost always am when cleaning house) on one foot with Molly our dog looking at me most curious as to what had just transpired.
So, I get up to the bathroom. pour hydrogen peroxide across the wound, grab a compress, and get the frozen rice bags from the freezer on my foot by now propped up across an ottoman. The rice bags are wonderful. They are cold and ready and sport not a drop of condensation!! Soon my dignity is somewhat restored so I band-aid my toes together to form a splint on what I believe to be a broken toe and proceed back down the stairs to finish my job and to clean up whatever spots of blood I have left.
I never deviate where I plug the sweeper or how I go about this task. But today after plugging into the regular socket and turning the sweeper on there is a flash and then quiet as nothing is running. There is no power on anything in my field of vision. The blue light on the computer is off, the light on the upright freezer is off, and the ceiling light for my office is out. Guessed I had blown a fuse or something.
As my friends and family well know I am not mechanical. Partly I will confess by plan. I realized when a girl in school in the '50s that had I learned to type I would have had to have been a person who got a job limited at that time to typing, so I didn't. Upon marrying I supposed that if I learned to change the oil in the car that too would have become my job, so I didn't.
I called Brian. He told me I needed to open the electrical box and see which lever had flipped and push it back so I did as he said. None were flipped. Our house phone did not work either as they are rolled in along with the modem on the computer. I had taken my cell phone with me for that reason.
So there I stood... by now sock footed on the cold garage floor. Toe throbbing. Nothing appeared to be wrong in the box. I tried to call Brian but could not get through. Unbeknown-st to me he was at the same time calling me, unable to get through! I tried again, and again. ENOUGH. I gave it up and proceeded upstairs to sit, just to sit.
In hindsight it may have been my location below ground and around all of that electrical "stuff" that kept me from getting through. I propped up my foot and turned on the TV.
Soon I heard the familiar sound of the garage door raising beneath me. (Our house sits built into the side of a hill and the garage is below the living room and the dining room.) Again my hero appeared riding his trusty S-10 pickup to my rescue.
He didn't come though because of the electricity. He came to be sure I was OK.
The funny in this story is me. Silly me. And the love in this story is about old love. The kind that comes from a lifetime of struggles, ups and downs, good times, and bad. It is about sticking together even when you may not think it is what you want to do. But....if you do you will find it is well worth the trip.