What Speed Bumps?

Buffalo Bill Reservoir, towards the North Fork of the Shoshone River

When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water.

Gwendolyn Brooks

Monitoring the burn along the canal.

Smoking Up the Neighborhood

The Tree Musketeers 

Sometimes someone says something and years later you're still pondering what they might have meant.  A friend's comment comes to mind...that Jerry and I were a good balance for each other. At the time I smiled and pretended I knew exactly what he meant, but must admit that the more I think about it, I wonder what caused him to make such a profound observation. Perhaps more precisely, my husband must be wondering what our friend could have possibly observed that he would make such a comment, since he seems to be constantly attempting to correct my mistakes.

I seem to be the fiery trial to his patience, the interference to his plan,  the risk to his caution.  The fool that rushes in to his prudence, the distraction to his focus, the indulgence to his self denial, the idiot to his savant.  The worst of it, for me, is how often it appears he's right.  Every time a personality test comes up, we're opposites.  I turn out to be the fun-loving green to his responsible red.  He always thinks his nature is better, serious, dependable, while I humbly think fun is good, even harmless. Diametrically opposed, like thumbs always hitch-hiking in two different directions, I'm the wrong to his right.  Learned early on that, right or wrong, something's got to give, and that something is usually me.  But every so often, I take the bull by the horns and live a little dangerously, and suffer the consequences.

 Take for an example our week-ago-Sunday project. Broadly stated, we were putting a myriad of finishing touches on an apartment for Mindy with Duane's help, but after moving the oven and hooking up the stack-able laundry set, he got a phone call, and was gone for the duration.  She commented about 10 p.m. that she thought I might be a night owl. I think it was the KFC that Duane brought to us.  It did appear I'd gotten a second wind somehow, and was organizing tools and supplies to the porch ready for the move to the truck.  Paint cans had a spot, brushes with them, screw drivers, wrenches, tape measure and saws in a pile, boxes of nails and screws in another, extra base trim, and so on.  Moving out. Cleaning.  Scrubbing paint off the sink.  More moving tools.  I was on a mission when Jerry and Mindy were ready to call it a day.

Everything was so close to finished.  I could see the end in sight, and after following instructions all afternoon, I finally knew what had to be done. I was a force that wasn't going to stop easily.  They reluctantly caught some momentum and transferred everything except a couple of sponges and rags, and the mop I was using for the final spit and shine, from the porch of Unit #147 to the S-10.  We were on a roll, although it was quite dark and hard to see. Tools and supplies of every kind were being piled in the truck bed: paint, cut-off saw, plumbing fittings, supplies, duct tape, three brooms. small compressor, air-nailer.  Jerry wonders, "Three brooms???" Whatever... three brooms, I say.  No, I don't know why Mindy has three brooms.  All I know is that one of them works the best, so that's the one I want to use.  Mindy could have 10 brooms for all I cared, for a one bedroom apartment fixer-upper, just get them out of here, but it was a mystery Jerry was ready to solve.

Being unable to distract me, off he went, walking (stalking?) to the other unit, #14, also a fixer-upper in progress, where we were going to be storing and using, at least temporarily, some of the tools and supplies, carrying something, while Mindy finished loading the truck, and I took one last swipe of the sink and counter with a sponge, and another of the window seat, shut out the light and locked the door.  Whew,  Eleven p.m., exhausted, but finished, and out.  I briefly wondered if Jerry was mad at me, but, due to my focus on the current goal, I was only fleetingly concerned.

Mindy decided that I would drive the truck and she would follow behind to make sure nothing fell off the back of the truck, as we moved our supplies to the other unit.  Fine.  Go slow, Mom.  Right.  That's what Dad told me, too. Got it. No problem.  So about half way between the units and past the second of three speed bumps,  we met Jerry coming back to meet us.  Suddenly, he waved urgently, and I eased to a gentle stop to see what he wanted. Apparently, I wasn't going as slow as I thought, because, I was informed, Mindy was yelling, "MOM!"  "MOM!" and running as fast as she could behind the truck, trying to keep things from falling off the open tailgate.  While I went "flying" over speed bumps, she was picking up and catching things; the small compressor as it nearly tipped off the back of the truck, giving it a good shove, then picking up something else, a paint can, that had fallen off, and running to catch up again and so on, apparently this is how it had been going from the start.

I did not see or hear all this happening behind me, so was quite possibly ignoring the speed bumps.  I really, really dislike speed bumps, so  I tend to pretend they don't exist, but it seemed to be causing trouble for Mindy.  I don't know that very many people could have managed it so well, actually, but despite her successful rescues, she seemed more than a bit perturbed that night. Seems Jerry envisioned the neighbors calling the cops to see what all the commotion was about.  By the next evening, my sense of humor was getting the best of me, while my imagination reenacted the scene of Mindy's dashing about, grabbing falling supplies while hollering to attract my attention, and we laughed until we had to wipe away tears.  Mindy was even seeing the funny side by then, and we regaled our befuddled dinner guest with that story and some others.  Though Mindy seemed to wonder what I was thinking, I just can't explain it.  According to Jerry, this type of thing has happened before, something about bouncing across the field, while he balanced on the trailer I was pulling, hay bales falling on his head from the top of the bale-scooper-upper too fast for him to keep up with stacking them on the trailer, while I, driving the bale picker, aimed and fired.  No cops to call, no neighbors to disturb, no problem.  But that's another story.

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love. 

Francis of Assisi 

The very atmosphere of firearms anywhere and everywhere restrains evil interference - they deserve a place of honor with all that's good. 

George Washington