Busting a Move

(The following was written in November 2010 and things are now on the slow mend)

What’s wrong with this sentence: ‘I slipped on the ice in Phoenix and broke my wrist.’?  My daughter, Lauren, and I went to open skating at one of eight ice rinks Arizona boasts. I had no protective equipment on and Bubble Wrap would have come in handy as I fell hard on my right arm.  I knew right away what was wrong: (Pardon the medical jargon:) The head bone was connected to the neck bone, the neck bone was connected to the shoulder bone, the shoulder bone was connected to the arm bone, but the arm bone was definitely NOT connected to the hand bone.

Lauren drove to the ER and I was paranoid about getting broadsided on the way over—I didn’t mention that to my lovely daughter who was driving quite well if not a bit jerkily.  In the waiting room I was not a good patient. Lauren kept telling me to have a positive attitude, think of the funny side of it.  The WHAT?  As there had been a bit of blood on my wrist, the rink guy had thought maybe it was a bone coming thru.  After about five minutes of putting up with my wailing, Lauren marched up to the ER window and mentioned the bone-out-of-the-skin business and they came for me right away.  After being gifted some lovely morphine, I was X-rayed and, while all bones were declared still tucked inside, the radius and ulna were broken clean thru.  I cried about missing my hockey season, and when asked if there was anything else I needed, I apparently replied, ‘George Clooney.’ The orthopedic doc came (very easy on the eyes) and reconnected the wrist which had swelled to the size of a nice Idaho baking potato.  My surgery could wait until I was in Minnesota.  Instructed to ice it, I was told that a bag of frozen peas works really slick.

Lauren flew off to college in Denver while I missed my plane to the Land of 10,000 Ice Rinks.  Drugged up, I was lollygagging around Sky Harbor Airport as my flight had been delayed—at least I thought  it had...   Lucky for me, and anyone worried about the doped up vagrant sprawled out in the waiting area, I got on another flight soon after.

After surgery my wonderful, handsome husband (besides this being true, I have to make up for the ER comments) took care of me all weekend.  I have this electronic icing machine that connects to a bag inside my splint. Steve had to hook me up to it every hour along with getting me this and that, zipping, buttoning, tying, helping me wash my hair etc.  While tethered to the frosty, pulsating ice contraption, I noticed my grey, dangling, swelling fingers and thought the extremities might enjoy the frozen vegetables.  “Hey, Steve, would you mind bringing me my pea bag?”  He stopped dead in his tracks looking stunned and thought, ‘you mean I have to do that too?!’  I explained and he was much relieved not to have to…relieve.

My lazy weekend with Steve doing everything ended with his going back to work Monday.  On my own, I can’t entirely unplug myself from the black hose used in my hourly ice baths from my friend the Ice Machine.  I can unhook the prodigious plug attached to the machine, but not the end that plugs into my forearm splint.  So, the dog and I take a walk both wagging our black tails behind us, or the bandolier look is fashionable-- not necessarily in Mendota Heights, but it does make a statement.  A few people cross the street when they see me coming.  It is nice black braided fabric but doesn’t work real well as a belt because, well, it’s a hose.

To reduce swelling I hold my hand up in a frozen Prom Queen wave.  On several occasions strangers have smiled and waved back!  (Unless I’m sporting the bandolier) It cracks me up!   I’ll take every bit of ‘looking at the funny side’ that I can get.

©2010, Jana B. Patrick   

Random Robins

My friend Mike saw a robin New Year’s morning in Bemidji, Minnesota.  I've also seen a few lately.

Robins in Minnesota in January?  Hello?  Mr. Robin?  Every winter you have free airfare and a free place to stay in Mexico and Florida.  And you’re here.  And it’s minus 30 degrees.  And there are no worms to be seen.  Any leftover berries will bust your beak.

So what happened?  How did these robins miss their flight?  One cold November morning Mr. Robin might have chirped, “Those fermented berries last night were awesome!  But, gee, I have a big-ass headache--well, okay, it’s a weenie-ass headache since my brain is the size of a pea –hahaha!   —But, hey guys!!!  What a night that was, huh?!  Bob dancing on the birdbath wearing that stupid acorn hat! Taht hot wren dancing with Robbie?!!  Guys?  Hey!  Guys? Where is everybody?  Gee whiz!  They’re GONE!!! Which way is south???!” 

Bird brain.                                                                                                               
 ©2011, Jana B. Patrick 

Bon Anniversaire à Mon Bébé!

Our last little birdie skated out of the nest this school year!  Christmas Break is over and I’m missing the kids.   Below are some quotes and stories from the youngest growing up:

Age 2 ½: While playing Hide and Seek,  Lauren (4) and I were hiding and shouted, “Come find us, Alana!”  She excitedly said, “Ok!!.. I’m gonna hide, too!”  We went over the rules one more time… Soon it was Alana’s and my turn to hide and she called out, “We’re gonna hide under the blanket in my room!”…

Age3:  Well into November I came up with the brilliant idea of the kids doing chores to get what was left of the Halloween candy. “Chore!  Chore!” Alana happily sang out.  I told her to make her bed and she could get  her treat after breakfast at which time she went to the bucket and took two pieces of candy.  Being the warden that I am, I said, “You did one chore, one piece of candy.” She replied, “Eating is a chore.  I  eated!”

Age 4 ½:  Alana was tapping some blocks together and asked me to guess which song she was playing that started with an “H.”  “Happy Birthday; Hava Nigila??” I guessed.  She cried out, “It was Hankee Doodle!”

Age 5:  She spelled “p-i-s-s-i-n-g” and asked what it means.  I told her then added that it’s not a nice word.  She was biting her cheeks trying not to smile from her decadent achievement and finally grinned,  “I can spell ‘dumb’, too!”

Age 5 ½:   We’d been invited to a friend’s house until  I realized Alana had a slight fever.  She said, “I STILL want to GO!!  If you won’t drive me I’ll walk there—even if I don’t know the way!  If I can’t find it I’ll walk to the airport.  If I can’t find the airport I’ll go to the firefighters and if I can’t find them I’ll come home and you’ll  HAVE to drive me there –humph!!!”

Age 6 ½:  I was reading Alana a funny ‘Cute Kid Story’  in the ‘Bulletin Board’ section of The Pioneer Press newspaper  as she ate a bagel.  “Can I have another one?” “Sure!” I said, thinking maybe she’s in a growth spurt.  I asked, “Do you want half or whole?”  “Half or whole WHAT?” she asked.  “Bagel—you asked for another one.”  “I meant I wanted another joke from the paper!”  

A few months later I sent ‘Bulletin Board’ this story:  “My husband was still at a meeting, and it was time to pick up our son from hockey.  Our two pajama-clad  7 and 9 year old girls were eating a bedtime snack.  I felt bad for having to tow them along.  “Hop in the car!”  I said and expected groans of “Do we have to?”  Grabbing their plates of apple slices and caramel, they climbed into the way back of the Suburban.  The youngest blissfully sighed:  “I just love taking drives in the dark…in my jammies…wrapped in a blanket…eating a snack…next to my sister.”  And sister added:  “Especially when it’s after our bedtime!”  They sang the whole way.”

Now Alana’s in college…a school renowned for its music.  One day while walking to the athletic building a fellow student pointed to her bag and said, “What instrument do you play?”   “Hockey,” she dryly replied.

Thanks for picking a college only 40 minutes away!  See you tonight, sweetie!
©2010, Jana B. Patrick              

The Last Panini of Fischerville

My husband, Steve, stopped at Fischerville Coffee House every weekday morning and savored his brew while driving back roads through sleepy old neighborhoods following the Mississippi River into downtown St. Paul.  Our college age daughters had frequented the old fashioned shop with friends and family, and were disappointed to hear that , because the building was being sold, Fischerville was closing and Christmas break would be the last time they could visit their favorite destination for coffee, smoothies and especially the breakfast panini’s. 

Nostalgia runs deep in Fischerville.  The building dates back to the 1920’s when it was the center of commerce and social life in a slower time than can be imagined today.  While only six miles from the hustle and bustle of downtown St. Paul, the store originally sat on a 300 acre farm in a drowsy rural community.   Established by Frank Fischer, the farm with its store became known as the unincorporated town of Fischerville.  He even put up his own town sign and was recognized by some map makers.  Acreage was sold off for development and eventually in the 1940’s Fischerville was just five acres with three residents—all in the Fischer family.   Frank ran the general store, gas station, was the self-appointed mayor, full council and Chief of the surrounding Mendota Township Volunteer Fire Department.  Most importantly, because of Frank Fischer, his general store was where people came together.

Eventually the general store gave way to such things as light industrial use for many years until Kathy Doyle opened her coffee house in 2006 keeping the exposed 1920’s joists, wide planked wood floors and brick exterior.  She achieved her mission of providing excellent food and beverages and created a friendly gathering place “with an old town/neighborhood feel.”

 On the morning of December 31^st, while the coffee house was doing an especially brisk last day of business, Steve and Alana stopped in to order coffee, a smoothie and two Panini’s.  Steve said, “Make that four,” and turning to our daughter he said,” We’ll get one for Mom.”  Behind the counter, Annette responded, “Oh!  You just bought our very last Panini!”

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©2011, Jana B. Patrick

http://www.fischervillecoffee.com/Fischerville%20History.html

Microsoft, You Like Me...You Really, Really Like Me!

We got a call from a very insistent man ‘from Microsoft’ who described with an Indian accent the seismic virus that was imploding our computer.   I handed the phone to Steve who asked the guy, “How do YOU know what’s happening on MY computer?”  Steve slammed down the phone.  (Oh, I guess you can’t really do that now-a-days)  Steve clicked the ‘off’ button really hard!  The very concerned guy called back—about six times. Wow, he really likes us!   Hey!  It may have even been Bill Gates trying to fake us out with an Indian accent!

Does Microsoft really love us?  They decided since we are A1 customers to call us?  Seven times?  I love you, too!   I wanted to believe this until my sister-in-law Janice said, “Yeah, they only have 5 trillion users, and they are going to call (you)?  Ha” 

So it must be a scam.  When I mentioned the call to my friend, Mary, she said she gets bombarded with scam emails about African ‘royalty’ offering money for help.   Now, Mary, if some African royalty named ‘King Tut’ emails, you KNOW it’s a scam.  The only help HE needs is some Avon Skin-So-Soft and fresh pajamas. 

(So, come on, Billy G.—was that really YOU???)

©2011 by Jana B. Patrick