Tag Archives: Family

In Case of Emergency, Call Me…Unless…

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If there’s an emergency, I’m there. That is to say, I want to be there, but most probably you’ll find me elsewhere. There’s something about that instant, when calmer heads should prevail, that makes me want to do an Usain and bolt.

I found this picture on the internet and I’m a little afraid they used an actual image of me from several years ago as their model (although I don’t think I’d ever really wear white cowboy boots.)

The office where I worked had a fire – a paper warehouse – yes, scary, right? When the alarm went off, I dropped the phone receiver, picked up my purse, and ran down the stairs. I’m pretty sure I knocked a grey-haired old lady down on my way.

When my son, Phinias, was little, he got burned by…well, by me actually. I was making spaghetti and just as I carried the boiling water to the sink, he did that toddler thing where they grab both your legs in a vice grip.  Later, in the emergency room, when they asked him what happened, he said, “My mom poured boiling water on me.”  Which was kinda true so then it took several hours with a social worker for me to retrieve Phinias.

Anyway, I was supposed to change his bandages every day and put salve on the burns.  I tried.  Really I did.  But I just couldn’t do it without gagging.  So, I did what any grown woman would have done in the same instance – I called my Daddy.  We both drove the 30 miles every night to meet up at the Lawrence turnpike rest stop where Dad (fondly referred to by his children as Dr. Quack) took Phinias away and returned him fifteen minutes later all set to go.

I’m not too good with the sight of blood either.  The first time I watched the lab technician fill a vial, I fell out of my chair in a dead faint.  Regrettably, the nurse was one of the few grown people shorter than me and I managed to land right on top of her.

Last year, while working in my garden, I sliced my finger with my pruning shears.  Thanks to a lifetime of emergency medical treatment by Dr. Quack, I knew that I’d need to wash the dirt out of the cut.  Unfortunately, every time I stood at the sink to run water over it, the room began to spin. I’d stumble to the nearest chair and lower my head between my knees.  When the room settled into place I’d try the sink again, which only landed me back on the chair trying to stay conscious. It reminds me of this episode from Frasier when Niles has a similar experience.

Like I said, I want to be the person you can count on in an emergency. I even took a CPR class.  So now, in case of an emergency, I’m your woman – unless you’re bleeding because then, I might faint. Or if you gag – which might make me throw up. But I’m kinda sure, that in case of an emergency, I might be able to help you.

On second thought, maybe you ought to call someone else.

A Few Good Dogs

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The other night, as I dined in a fancy French restaurant surrounded by my husband’s colleagues, the gentlemen next to me asked, “Does your dad still have the three-legged dog?”

You’d think by this point in my life I’d be used to near strangers asking me about my life, but it still startles me.  Evidently the look of shock on my face caused his wife concern and she leaned in to ask what we were talking about.

“Honey,” he said.  “This is that woman I was telling you about.  The one whose Dad had a three-legged dog.”  And then he launched into his memory of attending a Senate bonfire at my dad’s house over ten years ago.  My dad — and his three-legged dog — are memorable that way.

Normally we got our dogs and cats the way every farmer did – from the city people who drove out to the country to dump their unwanted pets.  The new animals were named without imagination – Socks because she had four white paws, Pumpkin because she arrived on Halloween, or Stupid, because, well, she was stupid.  Although, I believe she was renamed one morning after the milk truck arrived to pick up our weekly stock. Stupid barked and growled as usual but this time Mom punched open the back screen door and shouted “SHUT UP, STUPID!” just as the poor truck driver was climbing out of the cab.  He apologized and Stupid was renamed.

But our two most remarkable dogs came to us in a different way. Rookie was our first.  The tiny puppy arrived, cradled in the arms of my high school sweetheart, a birthday present.  When my boyfriend walked into our living room and handed me the dog, Dad couldn’t have looked more shocked if the guy had handed me an elephant.  Dogs did not belong in the house

Although Dad didn’t approved of the fancy baseball-referenced name, Rookie quickly became an indispensable part of farm life.  If he wasn’t already in the truck when Dad left, he’d run up the driveway and leap into the back before Dad turned onto the road in front of our house.  When my youngest brother was born, Rookie appointed himself sole guardian and planted himself on the baby’s blanket. I swear he didn’t budge until that kid was able to walk.  When Rookie died, Mom made sure he was buried where she could watch over him from the kitchen window.

It was a few years before the next good dog appeared, arriving like Rookie in the arms of my brother’s girlfriend.  He came with a sister that Dad allowed us to name Daisy evidently softening since the Rookie naming.  However, we  called the male Friday, after the day he arrived.  Daisy was a pretty little blonde haired dog while Friday, on the other hand…well, as Dad would say – he must have fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.

Neither dog seemed suited to farm life and it wasn’t long before we lost Daisy to an accident.  Friday hung on though and eventually became Dad’s constant companion.  When Dad headed out to the field on his tractor, Friday ran beside the front wheels, waiting to chase whatever darted out, coming within inches of the tires.   One day, he dashed after his prey and was run over.  Dad rushed him to the vet, something unheard of for previous pets.  They amputated Friday’s leg and he survived.  We tried calling him Tripod after that, but it didn’t stick.

Being a three-legged-dog didn’t slow Friday down one bit and within a few weeks he was out with Dad, running along side the tractor, like a good dog should.  In the evenings, I’d find Dad on the front porch watching the sunset.  In his lap would be a beat up old tom cat and at his feet would be Friday.

My dad always said he was a fortunate man.  I’d smile for a moment thinking he meant his kids, but he’d continue, “Why, most farmers are lucky to have one good farm dog in their life and I’ve had two.