Handgrenade Hanna hits the dirt.
Well my little sister, Army veteran that she is should know how to hit the dirt like any good soldier. But last week she took a dive and ended up in the hospital. Let me start at the beginning. And you will soon see that insanity runs in the family. LOL
Sister was at her daughters admiring her new house. In the back yard were some steep steps. (the house is on a hill) So strolling down the steps to see what was in the back yard she thought she was at the bottom step. But............ well down she goes. She didn't say exactly what statement she made when she hit the bottom but beings that she was a E-6 Sargeant in the Army I am sure Sarge would recognise at least a few of the well spoken words. So she picks her self up and notices that her feet are pointing up instead of down. Calling to the house did no good so she crawls up the stairs on her hands and knees. Her daughter wants to take her to the hospital but being just as stubborn as her brother she hobbles out to the car and goes home. Morning comes and she finds an old set of crutches the kids had when they were home and gets dressed and goes to work.
One of the co-workers sees her feet, which by now are purple, black and still turned up slightly, tells the boss and he insists that she call an ambulance and go to the hospital.
"No No" she says, "I am ok." But the boss is not to be denied and he and a couple of the men get ahold of her chair and wheel her out to the parking lot and roll her into the bosses SUV. (and yes people in the parking lot stared) At the hospital they take x-rays and a doctor looks at her feet and tells her she has sprained her ankle and to stay off her feet for a while. Does she go home? Not my sister, she goes back to work. Less than an hour later she gets a telephone call from the hospital and another doctor tells her he wants her back in the hospital immediately. He has looked at her x-rays and she has both legs broken and both feet broken. So the boss and the guys call the ambulance and back she goes. This time she comes back to work in a pair of casts from knees to toes.
The boss screams "What do I have to do to you to get you to stay at home?" And out sister goes in her chair pushed by the boss and the guys through the parking lot and into the SUV.
Now she is at home and getting bored. She had to live downstairs because she couldn't climb the stairs to her tri-level home. And she notices that the grass in the yard is really high and she is afraid that the city will come out and give her a ticket for a code violation. Soooo.... she now has a wheel chair, and the basement is at the same level with the garage. So she wheels herself out to the garage and cranks up the lawnmower (not self propelled) and ties the lawn mower onto the back of her wheel chair. And there she goes out to mow the lawn by pushing her wheel chair around the yard. A real problem comes up, the yard is very steep and sloping and she cannot push the wheelchair up the hill. So she gets on her knees and drags her wheel chair (and accompanying lawn mower) up to the top. Gets back in her wheel chair and down she goes to the bottom of the lawn. And beyond, like out into the street and across the neighbors yard. After about 4 trips back and forth with one very close call with a UPS truck she decides that mowing lawn is not for her. So she is back to the basement. And now she is going to clean the basement. Finally after having a pile of boxes fall on her she gives it up and stays home. Sister may not be smart but she is stubborn.
Sarge (it runs in the family)
When I got there they were burying the lion in the back yard again. As usual, it was a hastily dug grave, not really large enough to hold the lion and dug with a maximum of incompetence and they were trying to stuff the lion into a sloppy little hole.
The lion as usual took it quite stoically. Having been buried at least fifty times during the last two years, the lion had gotten used to being buried in the back yard.
I remember the first time they buried him. He didn't know what was happening. He was a younger lion, then, and was frightened and confused, but now he knew what was happening because he was an older lion and had been buried so many times.
He looked vaguely bored as they folded his front paws across his chest and started throwing dirt in his face.
It was basically hopeless. The lion would never fit the hole. It had never fit a hole in the back yard before and it never would. They just couldnt dig a hone big enough to bury that lion in.
?Hello,? I said. ?The holes too small.?
?Hello,? they said, ?No, it isnt.?
This had been our standard greeting now for two years.
I stood there and watched them for an hour or so struggling desperately to bury the lion, but they were only able to bury of him before they gave up in disgust and stood around trying to blame each other for not making the hole big enough.
?Why dont you put a garden in next year? I said. ?This soil looks like it might grow some good carrots.?
They didn't think that was very funny.
THE OLD BUS
I do what everybody else does: I live in San Francisco. Sometimes I am forced by Mother Nature to take the bus. Yesterday was an example. I wanted to get some place beyond the duty of my legs, far out on Clay Street, so I waited for a bus.
It was not a hardship but a nice warm autumn day and fiercely clear. An old woman waited, too. Nothing unusual about that, as they say. She had a large purse and white gloves that fit her hands like the skins of vegetables.
A Chinese fellow came by on the back of a motorcycle. It startled me. I had just never thought about the Chinese riding motorcycles before. Sometimes reality is an awfully close fit like the vegetable skins on that old womans hands.
I was glad when the bus came. There is certain happiness sighted when your bus comes along. It is of course a small specialized form of happiness and will never be a great thing.
I let the old woman get on first and trailed behind in classic medieval tradition with cantle floors following me onto the bus.
I dropped in my fifteen cents, got my usual transfer, even though I did not need one. I always get a transfer. It gives me something to do with my hands while I am riding the bus. I need activity.
I sat down and looked the bus over to see who was there, and it took me about a minute to realize that there was something very wrong with that bus, and it took the other people about the same period to realize that there was something very wrong with the bus, and the thing that was wrong was me.
I was young. Everybody else, about nineteen of them, were men and women in their sixties, seventies and eighties, and I only in my twenties. They stared at me and I stared at them. We mere all embarrassed and uncomfortable.
How had this happened? Why were we suddenly the players in this cruel fate and could not take our eyes off one another?
A man about seventy-eight began to clutched desperately at the lapel of his coat. A woman maybe sixty-three began to filter her hands, finger by finger through a white handkerchief.
I felt terrible to remind them of their lost youth, their passage through slender years in such a cruel and unusual manner. Why were we tossed this way together as if we were nothing but a weird salad served on the seats of a God-damn bus?
I got off the bus at the next possibility. Everybody was glad to see me go and none of them were more glad than I.
I stood there and watched after the bus, its strange cargo now secure, growing distant in the journey of time until the bus was gone from sight.
I'll believe corporations are persons when Texas executes one.: LBJ's Ghost