On Writing

    So, I was reading On Writing by Stephen King and finding out what I already know, “I don’t know much.”

   So, I’m thinking about what happened to Stephen in some later years of his writing career and how it compared to a life event of my own.

   I was standing in a vacant lot, also known as a cow pasture, just south of the Silverton High school Gym, wearing my 1955 model single face guard helmet, way to large shoulder pads, and mud filled cleats wondering what this 85-pound sophomore was doing here?

  Coach O.C. had placed me at defensive right corner and I was to keep all comers from going around my end. Shit here comes 220 pounds of T.D. West with the ball, but ahead of him was John the Schott leading interference for T.D. like he needed some help. While they was a coming, I was thinking, this is gona hurt but it’s my job. Glad it has been raining so the ground will be soft when I go down. I heard the crack as I went down and realized I was totally in-capacitated in the right leg. Pain wasn’t too bad, but I had this strange sensation adrenaline pours on you when you’ve flat out had it.

   Well, I had it, but the coaches kept trying to stand me up, and I kept going down, and I needed to stay down. I always wondered if O.C. was smart as I thought he was, and come to find out he was, he figured out I needed more help than anyone there could give so he brought his car out onto the lot and a bunch of teammates slid me in the back seat. Oh boy, this is gona be fun as the car jumped the muddy ditch just as the adrenalin was wearing off. Oh no, he is stopping at my house, O.C. says to me, “I’m taking you to Tulia to the Hospital figure Jackie would want to know.”  “Oh, hell here I am being a problem and I don’t want to be a problem I just want to play football; I think.” Twenty-six miles of trying to keep my right leg straight and not enough room to stretch out left me partly paralyzed by the time we reached the ER at Tulia Texas.

   Half a dozen good guys and a wheeled stretcher delivers me to the X-ray lab. Some scissors and my cleats and pants disappear. Damn, cold hard table and I think I have been on it for hours before bad news arrives. Thigh bone uh, femur, not cracked but broken and luckily has not punctured an artery or broken thru the skin layer though I could see the dark spot just north of the knee. Tear leaked from the corner of one eye. Looks like I’m tied down for a while.

    Wasn’t long before I got ambulance ride to Amarillo to see about fixing me up. Morphine and its kinfolk kick in, and the evening gets better fast. Vaguely remember the transfer to hospital bed Northwest Texas Hospital. Daylight I find my broken leg being stretched by rope, pulleys, and weights that hang off the end of the bed. Seems doc believe it or not, “Hyde,” tells me we must pull the bone back in alignment before surgery. Dr. Hyde shows me some stainless-steel screws he will use to re-connect the splintered bone. I order more morphine as I eye the five- and six-year old’s circling the weights stretching my leg at the end of the bed. I didn’t bother to ask how long before surgery, just close my eyes and dread the next time the nurses come to pull me back up in the bed, so my weighted leg does not touch the foot rail.

   Surgery day comes and thankful I will get rid of the weights. What I did not know is I woke up with a cast from my ribcage to the tip of my toe on the right leg and down to the knee on the left leg. I could not be more trapped to the bed than if it were a bear trap. One more tear slipped from the corner of my eye. Two days later I find myself in my room with urinal and bedpan for company. No way to turnover, sit up, or even tend to myself. Dear old dad built a rail above the bed with a pulley high enough so he could tie a rope to my cast right leg and give me the end of the rope so I could lift me up and swing sideways just enough to let me flip face down on the bed. I could flip or flop but that was the extent of my movement. Trapped in my mummy case for what may be forever. Don’t like football so much these days.

   Five days later my football buddy classmates show up. “Hi guys good to see you sorry I can’t get up to visit.” Dewey, Joe, Dave, Eldon, Charles, and maybe more have a grin on and it worries me. Uh Oh they are loading me on a wheeled gurney and out the front door. Oh shit, they have a small school bus and slam me inside. Dewey says, “just relax we’ll be to school in a minute.” Worse case Charles is driving and I’m in fear I’ve seen his driving before. Every dip in the street and chug throws the steel gurney up against all the walls and the back of the driver’s seat causing Charles to slam on the brakes. With urinal between legs banging on the cast I hang on the rails as best I can. They all laugh when they unload me on the sidewalk leading to front door of Silverton High School. Evidently, they want to see how fast this gurney would roll and if they could stop it before the two steps going into the school. My lightweight blanket weren’t near enough to keep me covered but I guess I’m just glad to be alive because I’m laughing too.

  Classes on a gurney and a 40-yard race down the sidewalk to lunch at the cafeteria. If I survive five weeks of this, I’ll be in line for the Congressional Medal of Honor or some sort of. That weren’t all of it, I got a ride to all six of the remaining football games in a Ford Ranch Wagon. Mostly endzone view but much appreciated.

  The day they cut me out of the cast was very much like Stephen King felt after his run in with a car that almost took his life. Dr, Hyde used a high-speed circle saw to cut me out of the cast. Felt like I was being cut and bleeding while he was running the saw, then there was a thin, crusty, scaley, ugly, body and me not sure I wanted it to belong to me. Doc says, “we are going to clean you up a bit then let us stand you up for just a moment. Well, I never got to the moment, when my head came up above my body I went out like a light. Sure, glad there were some around to catch me. Next day I sat on the edge of the bed, then the next day I stood up with crutches. Oh man, wheels up except when a crutch slipped. Pain like none other for four weeks limbering up both hips and one knee.

  As Stephen said without all the folks pulling for us and caring for the mess we were, we would not be healed. And yet we were! And allowed us to be creative in our own way.

                                                     

  Time is Rolling Along

  As time is rolling along, the countryside is passing my windshield. Two hundred fifty-six miles and I stand looking as far into the past as I go.  A mother left me 72 years ago and a father that left thirty-two years. Memory is as fresh as dew on the grass. We talk a while; I beg forgiveness of my shortcomings and remind them I will be joining them soon. I tell them I’m on my way to see their Amarillo grandson and take in a country music concert. They remind me I know very little more of this grandson than they do. I promise to engage him, look him in the eye and talk about you.

   On down the road I run across some apostles, we talk from wisdom past, and chuckle at our age. Aches, pains, and mirrors tell us we are older than we think as we speak of younger days. They bid me good day and tear as we may not see each other again on this side. I leave as my iron horse is telling me a story of A Time for Mercy from her speakers.

  Long afternoon bar hopping, reacquainting our kinship as I figure out, we live in different worlds and his is good, and different from mine. Music is loud and entertains the 5000+ crowd of young tanned beautiful people. It is good to see so many smiles, hugs, kisses, and handshakes and not the violence or disharmony portrayed on the flat screen. My 78 years watches, and tires quicker than I would like, so a hard walk to distant motel and sleep.

   If you know what a big breakfast is, it was awesome. A goodbye to son who is much older than I thought he might be. The unknown time factor plays tricks on my mind as I head south to home and revisit the past as familiar countryside drifts by my windshield. Down off the caprock just south of Quitaque, as I cross the Los Lingos Creek, I see Jesus. Not really surprised as I have seen him before. One time in Mexico he was riding a horse on a rock road to Morelia. His name was pronounced a little different, but he is the same guy, standing on the bridge. I pull off the road and walk back to the bridge.

  As I approach Jesus says, “Good to see you it’s been a long time.” as he leans on his walking stick.

  “Oh yes it has been a while. Do you need a ride?”

  “No, I have just left the falls and pond back up the creek. I knew you would be along and figured you would recognize me and pull over.”

   “So, you remember, and I must ask. Have you seen me in your travels?”

   “Oh yes I see you making dust” Jesus replied and added, “you are doing a pitiful job of it.”

   “I know,” I reply, look down, and add, “I have a problem with my missteps.”

    Jesus reminds me,” It is my job the handle your missteps, and your job not to make them, you must remember I am here for you.”

   “So, you’re going to show up no matter what, on my journey?”

   “As long as you look out the windshield, or lift your eye to a stranger, I will see you makin’ dust.”

   “Thank you for the visit, keep a watch on my dust, help me to make worthy dust.”

   “Once again as back in Mexico Jesus says, “Come back this way one more time.”

    I ask about his caballo and he responds, “He has gone to the beyond, but I visit him often.”

    “Thank you for the visit and watch for my dust, I will do better.” I say as I pullback on the road and remember the time he rode on my shoulder in my old Jimmy truck.

     Down the road past the Fairmont Baptist Church, Flomot, Matador, on to Jacksboro to pick up fried chicken. I approach home and feel blessed for my safe trip. The wife is patient and glad I brought chicken and gravy as we enjoy what is left of this fine Easter Sunday. I will tell her of my day later, she will not be surprised.