Going to plan B

The wife and I cruised over to the fairgrounds to
see how the Flying Eyeball Reunion had progressed
since our last visit. It brought to mind the old
adage ‘the more things change the more they stay
the same’.

When we left it would be a stretch to say there
were 50 show vehicles and 10 spectator cars on the
grounds. The first Reunion was an event to
remember but this one reminded us why we have not
attended for a few years.

I did take a few pictures, but when I went to put
them on the computer a glitch deleted all five. So
we go to plan B.

looking

When I was still a pre-teen my brother and myself
were in the hayloft of the barn. Of course we went
up there because we told not to. And as happens I
ended up a country doctor’s office with a pitchfork
stuck through my foot.

We got a little over zealous and my brother went
to get more hay and the pitchfork went all the way
through my foot and stuck said foot to the floor
boards of the hayloft.

My brother scampered down the ladder to get help
and dad climbed up, got me unstuck, and got me on
solid ground. It wasn’t easy getting me into the
car with my new appendage but we managed and sped
off to nearest doctor one town away.

The old doctor looked things over, checked for
broken bones, and told me bite down on a hunk of
leather he had handed me. The instant he saw I had
bit down on the strap he grabbed my foot in one hand
and pitchfork in the other and separated the two.

He then cleaned up the wound and wrapped it like
a mummy foot. No damage was done to bone, muscle
or any blood vessels but I was told I would need
crutches. We could buy some but Dad couldn’t see
the expense for a one use item.

I hopped around on one good foot until Dad come
up with a solution. He did some measuring to assure
his “crutch” would be the right length and went off
in search of crutch making materials. He came up
with a 1×2 piece of lumber with a hole in the top
and in that he inserted a paint roller.

While it did the job, to this day I can’t figure out
why he painted the 1×2 pink.
Comments are always welcome.

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3 Responses to Going to plan B

  1. ekurie says:

    I just think some fathers have odd senses of humor. I know mine did.

  2. Brittius says:

    Life was different back then. When I was a kid, a bunch of us climbed the eight foot wrought iron picket fence to get into the Catholic schoolyard to play ball. I got pushed as a joke, and a picket went right through me from front to back, missing my appendix. I hung around for a while, as kids screamed and ran for their parents, who screamed, who called the cops. I saw the lights and heard the siren and knew that we were not allowed in the schoolyard. It was posted, “No Tresspassing”, and knew we would be shot by the cops. I pulled myself off the picket, now two more pickets breakng the skin, and I ran home. The cops banged on the door but I was too smart and hid. Someone had already called my father, who found me inside. I was okay and the holes, I crimped with my fingers to close the punctures. “You’re okay?”, asked my father. Yes. Then he beat the crap out of me for bleeding all over the place and scaring him.
    At least I didn’t get into a street fight this time…

  3. cruisin2 says:

    ekurie,
    amen to that.

    Brittius,
    imagine if something like that happened today. Great story.

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