If I don’t watch out, I might end up with as many hours flying as our oldest son.
Well, I suppose not since he’s a life-long pilot who retired from a career in Air Force cockpits and now flies FedEx cargo transports hauling your stuff and mine – plus a boatload of COVID vaccine – across the country. So far in his 20-plus years of flight, Jarrod has survived one crash. His dad, on the other hand, crashes every time.
My most recent lawn dart incident came a week ago today while trying – without success as you’re about to learn – to help move son Aaron into a new home for his family in Kearney. The very first attempt to carry a box to the basement that morning ended ingloriously when this creaking carcass misjudged the steps by one, soared over the bottom of the staircase and landed in a 250-pound heap of blubber and embarrassment against a wall.
Frequent fliers who follow this column will recall just a few short weeks ago when this old bag of bones needed only the first step to tumble from top to bottom of the Tri-County canal through jagged concrete chunks prickling with spears of rebar. For background balance, in two falls years ago I destroyed enough high-buck camera gear my insurance company declined to continue our relationship.
More recently, the brief interval between the now-fabled fishing misadventure on the canal and Saturday’s humiliation on the stairs was more than adequately filled by tripping over a misplaced chair at home in complete darkness. That ‘flight’ crunched both shoulders and one knee.
A physical therapist ran me through some strength tests and found symptoms of arthritis in both shoulders. The left, he said, has a bonus rotator cuff tear. And that was before these last three headers. Factor in both biceps torn completely loose from their moorings at the top of the muscle and you are left with a used-up, oversized weakling decorated with liver spot sprinkles.
(Q) So what is today’s message for you?
(A) If (or more likely when) you see me begin to trip or stumble, RUNAWAYRUNAWAYRUNAWAY!