Another Car Story

The Drama Queen drives a 1988 Toyota Corolla. It is literally older than she is! That hasn't always been the case. When she was a senior in high school, it became apparent that she was going to accomplish a goal she set for herself when she was a lowly 9th grader...she was going to finish high school with an Associates Degree in her back pocket. Because we were so proud of her for sticking with her goal and working so incredibly hard, we decided to buy her a car.

Not her actual car...maybe Teach can find me a pic of the real one when she gets home from school.

  Oh not a new car, we could never afford that. I've told you before that we only drive old cars that are fully paid for around here. But we started looking for a nice little used car she could take when she headed off to college to finish her last two years. And it would be so fun for her to have a car to run around in with her friends during her senior year. The idea was that we would buy the car and make repairs, etc., until she graduated from college and then she could purchase the car from us. Since we have always told the kids that we would not be able to pay for their college educations, it seemed like a good way to support her without handing her cash.

The actual Drama Queen

We finally found what we were looking for...a five-year-old white Ford Mustang. It was beautiful! And it was her dream car. We picked it up for a really good price (around $8000) and presented it to her the summer before her senior year. She was so excited! She has always been a grateful child and she couldn't have been happier. The car was SOO fun to drive! Even I looked good in it.

....But it didn't handle all that well in the snow. Drama Queen had a couple of minor accidents in it, but nothing too serious. We just paid for them out of pocket and moved on. Then she graduated and moved to southern Utah for school. She racked up the miles that first semester, coming home almost every weekend. She was SOO homesick! By Christmas she had settled in. (Ironically, after my Sweetie made an ultimatum regarding the right to drive her "Pony" home and how much gasoline cost.  Yes...we even paid for her gas for awhile.)

The actual Mustang's death photos..

Then, she was coming home for Christmas during her second year when she had the first major accident. I don't remember exact details, but she did manage to make it to most of the family Christmas party despite being on the side of the road for four hours while the cops were cleaning up three other accidents right nearby. We had the car fixed during the holidays and she headed back to school. She came home rarely after that. She was having fun at school and the drive was so long!  We even missed having her for Thanksgiving that third year, but she did come home for Christmas.

One particularly cold evening, just a day before the family party, she wanted to go see a movie with her friends. I had a bad feeling and I begged her not to go, but she wouldn't listen. I was folding laundry when I got her call. "Mom, I've been in an accident; I don't think the car will go." I panicked, of course, and immediately started pulling on my shoes. "Where are you, are you hurt?" the questions tumbled from my lips. "I think I'm ok," she managed, "and I'm only a couple of intersections from home." It was about that time that the guy she collided with showed up at her car door. I could hear him yelling through the closed window, asking her if she needed help. She had called me seconds after the crash.

I pulled on my coat and handed my sweetie his and we headed out the door. It took us about 2 minutes to get to her. By then the ambulance was there and the passenger of the other car was being transported. The Drama Queen had managed to get out of her car and I threw my arms around her and gave her a big hug. It was pretty apparent that her beautiful little Mustang had not survived. We spoke to the attending police officer and he suggested we gather everything we might want from the vehicle. Even then I'm not sure she really believed that her beloved car was not ever coming home.

There was glass everywhere! Her airbags had been deployed, saving her from serious injury, but her shin had been jammed by the gearshift and by morning her entire lower leg was black and blue. I never saw her tears, but I know I shed some. I was so grateful that she was still with us, but I had no intentions of buying her another car. So she took the only thing we had to offer...the 1988 Corolla we had purchased for practically nothing so we could teach the Dog Walker to drive. She never complained, she just thanked us over and over.

She finished school with that little car and on Saturday she was devastated when her key broke in the ignition. It really has been a good little vehicle for her. Much more practical than the Mustang (although not as cute!) and it handles much better in the snow.   Drama Queen is still suspicious about driving too much the week of the Christmas party, but now when I say, "I don't think you should go..." she usually listens. Some lessons are learned the hard way.

My First Broken Bone

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I grew up in small-town Utah. It was so small that the elementary school and the junior high were in the same L-shaped building…big kids in one wing, little kids in the other. On the south side of the building we had a large playground with an extremely dangerous slide. It was metal with a couple of dips in it. That made it very hot and the sides to keep kids from falling off were only about six inches tall. The slide itself had to have been at least 30 feet high and just climbing the ladder (yes, a real ladder) was terrifying. But it was amazingly fun and rarely did a kid get hurt even though the landing pad was all gravel. We also had an old-fashioned "Witch's Hat" merry-go-round that was made out of metal. Yeah…we lived dangerously…we just didn’t know it.

On the north side of the building we had a large field, tennis courts, and a separate building that housed our gym and a couple of classrooms where the PE teachers taught health. The little kids pretty much stayed on the south side of the building and the big kids stayed on the north side. But not always. During lunch, the tennis courts hosted a huge pickup game of prisonball. If you’ve never played before, prisonball is a lot like dodge ball except that if you get hit by the ball or someone catches your ball, you go to the opposite side and stay in “prison” until someone catches a ball and you are set free. We only played with one playground ball, but the game was open to anyone who dared set foot on the court.

As a fifth-grader, I was pretty handy with a ball and I loved to play with the big kids. Unfortunately, I thought I was pretty good too and I was in severe need of a little dose of humility. One day I was standing about three feet from the net, urging an eighth grade boy to “Just throw it!” He pasted on an evil grin and lodged a bullet ball right at my chest. I deserved every bit of the force he threw into it. It slammed into my upper torso so hard that even though I caught the ball, I went down. I landed on my left arm and a piercing pain shot through my wrist. Of course I had to finish the game…but when the bell rang, for the first time in my life, I was happy to return to my classroom.

Not actual kid

After a few minutes of agony in my desk, I quietly approached my teacher, told him the story, and asked if I could walk the block to my house. He was not happy! He told me that if I decided to leave, I’d better come back with a cast! I was one of the top students in my class and my teacher was actually my neighbor and a good friend of my parents. I didn’t understand why he would treat me this way. I ran from the classroom, leaving my books and jacket at my desk. The tears stung my eyes as I cradled my arm against my stomach, trying to keep it from bouncing as I hurried along the dirt path that was the quickest way to my house.

Me

I burst through the door and into my mom’s arms. She wasn’t expecting me, and it took me a good five minutes to get the story out. Then she piled me in the car and we drove two blocks to the doctor’s office. A couple of x-rays later and I had proof that my arm was broken about an inch above my wrist. The doctor put me in a temporary splint and made an appointment for us in Provo. Small-town docs didn’t do their own casts then. Mom took me back to the school about the time classes were getting out for the day. I made my way triumphantly to my classroom. Boy was my teacher going to be surprised! As I entered the room, he looked up from his desk. “That doesn’t look like a real cast,” he remarked. I mumbled something about getting a real cast in Provo the next day, then I gathered up my things and left.

The next day was Friday and we headed for the big city to get the cast. Over the weekend, my teacher stopped by my house to apologize to me and my parents for his behavior. And on Monday morning, he was the first one in my class to sign my “real” cast.

Broken Bones

I woke up Saturday morning and my thumb was throbbing. When my sweetie touched it I nearly had to slug him, so I decided it was time to run over to the Instacare. I drove the three-minute trip about 9:00 a.m. By the time I got there I was pleased to see absolutely no one in the waiting room. I’ve never been through the Instacare so quickly! I saw the doctor, had x-rays, was fitted with a split, given a prescription, and told I’d be fine in a few days, all in about 40 minutes. That’s got to be a record! That’s right; no break this time. The splint is a little annoying, but the swelling is going down, so that’s good.

I’ve told you before that I love basketball! I played for two years on my high school team and then didn’t play for about 20 or so years. Then I got this new church calling that put me in charge of women’s sports. The first day I walked into the church and saw those women play, I turned around and walked back out. The woman who was in charge chased me down the hall and coaxed me back in. I was absolutely terrified! Somebody said, “You can just watch this time…you don’t have to play.” I sat on the fringe of the group. Other than my leader who chased me down, I didn’t know anyone. After a couple of minutes, I pulled on a jersey and announced to no one in particular, “Well, I’m going in.  If I don’t try it, I’ll never come back.” So in I went. And it was fun! I don’t think I made any points, but I got a couple of rebounds and I didn’t fall down or foul out or anything.
After that it was like an addiction. I loved the way the exercise made my body feel. Even though it made me desperately tired, I knew it was the right thing for me. You are probably wondering why I started talking about basketball when I was telling you about my thumb. I’ve been playing basketball for nearly five years now and I break a finger every season! And it’s not usually the same finger either. The first two I broke were the middle fingers, which is pretty logical since I usually end up playing Center. I’m only 5’8”, but that’s tall in our league. Then I broke my ring-finger…twice. First in the upper knuckle, then in the lower knuckle. I figure it’s just part of the game.

And I don't break just my own bones...The Gym Rat is super-tall (about 6’6”), so I was terribly excited to get him to play volleyball with me. The very first time I convinced him to show up he managed to break his finger. But he was too busy working and playing to bother going to the doctor. About six weeks passed and by then I had forgotten all about it. Then he showed it to me. I immediately got on the phone and called my hand specialist. His knuckle was collapsing. The answer was surgery and a pin…the next day!

Actual pin! Nasty!

He survived the surgery OK, but as he was sitting in the recovery room, the doctor told him that working around paint (he works for KWAL Paint) wouldn’t be a good idea and he was going to have to take 6 weeks off until they took the pin out. This didn’t set well with my son. So of course he went back to work within a few days. They let him do the easy stuff since any paint on the pin sticking directly out of the end of his finger would have gone directly into his bone and his bloodstream and he would have died within a few hours! Talk about a little extra stress I didn’t need! But all went well and he had the pin pulled out right on schedule. I’m grateful that I’ve never had to have any of that, but I have a few more broken bone stories I’ll share with you tomorrow.

Free Falling

Not Baby Doll's actual piano

I am NOT a natural klutz although today somebody might want to argue that point. A couple of days ago I was gathering my purse and talking to my sweetie on the phone. I had a couple of errands to run and I was focusing on them. Not paying attention, I caught the toe of my shoe on Baby Doll’s toy piano. It totally laid me out! At least I didn’t land on anybody on the way down. I woke up the next morning sore and bruised, but otherwise none the worse.

So tonight Teach and I walked over to her friend’s house to pick up a Tupperware order so we could close out her party (she got lots of free stuff btw!). But we got visiting and didn’t get away until after dark. It was only about six blocks away, but in our little hamlet some of the sidewalks are rather narrow. During one particularly dark stretch with trees on one side and a high fence on the other, I stepped off the edge of the sidewalk and for the second time in two days, I found myself smacking the ground. Only this time I didn’t land on carpet…I hit the concrete and skinned myself in a few obvious places. But the worst thing I did was try to catch myself with my right hand…I know better.

Not my actual Denny's

Yeah, I have another story for you. It was mid-September in 2000. I was extremely pregnant with Crafty and I was hot and miserable. My sweetie and I went downtown, I’m thinking for a doctor’s appt, but it could have been something else. When we were finished with our errands, we decided to go to dinner, sort of a little mini-date.

We chose a Denny’s-style diner and headed inside. We spent an hour talking and eating and planning. Crafty was due in about a week and the doctor had already promised to induce if she didn’t come on her own. We finished our food and gathered up to go. When I stood up, I guess it was a little too quickly, because the next thing I knew, I was sprawled out on the ground. For the first time in my life, I had fainted.

Not my actual Instacare

When I came to, my sweetie and the manager and a couple of servers were standing around me. My sweetie hauled me to my feet and placed a protective arm around my swollen body where my waist should have been. “Are you OK?” He glanced worriedly at my belly. Still a little confused, I managed, “I think so…” We stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. The manager offered his apologies and I ducked out and headed for the restroom. At least some things never change…

I backed my way through the door like I always do when I’m pregnant. After I had completed my business, I went to the sink to wash my hands. I reached for the faucet, and that’s when I noticed that my right thumb was hanging rather uselessly from my hand. It absolutely refused to grip the handle. I turned on the water with my left hand and carefully washed the injured limb. As I rejoined my sweetie, I whispered, “I think we better stop at the Instacare on the way home.”

Not my actual cast

Several hours later I was sporting a temporary cast that immobilized my hand and thumb. I hated what it did to me (imagine being 9 months pregnant and going to the bathroom with a cast on your dominant hand), but the worst part was the day my babe was induced. As they pumped me full of Pitocin and fluids, my hand became swollen inside the real cast I had received several days before. Since I had an epidural, the pain in my hand was way worse than the pain of having the baby. You would think that someone could have opened up the cast for me, but they refused!

Crafty was born (to read her birth story, click here) and I left the hospital the following day. On our way home we stopped at the orthopedic specialist’s office and he cut open the top part of the cast. Finally the pain eased.

Now, almost eleven years later, I’m not excited to report that my thumb is swollen and painful…at least this time I’m not pregnant (and I'm pretty sure it's not broken). I can still type...sort of...

The Woes of my Toes

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I’ve been thinking a lot about family vacations since we just got back from one. You know I said we suffered from the lack of electronics and that got me thinking about all the vacations we went on as kids. We didn’t have any electronics, not even cell phones. The closest we got was a transistor radio in the shape of an apple that I bought from Mr. Lee’s Variety Store for $9.98. That was about 1975. It was around that same year that we had planned a trip to Mesa Verde.

Similar to our camper- picture credit

I’ve told you before that my parents had a camper and my mom drove it around following my dad in the Bookmobile. Well this was different because it was not that kind of trip. This time we were all traveling in the camper and we were very excited! The camper had a little fridge in it and Mom always packed it full of milk and frozen water jugs so we could have cold water while we were traveling. She had a big freezer, but it was often full of good deals from her shopping trips up north, so sometimes she had to freeze her water jugs at Grandma’s house. I’m pretty sure it was the summer of ’75, but it could have been ’74 or ’76 when we took that trip. We were all loaded up when we drove the three blocks to Grandma’s to pick up the ice jugs. I ran inside to help haul them back to the camper. With a jug in one hand, I mounted the step to climb into the camper. That’s when that cold slippery jug decided it didn’t want to go on a trip and it jumped from my hand.

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Now this wouldn’t have been such a deal except for two things…one of my feet was still on the ground, and that same foot was bare. And that is exactly where the jug decided to land…right on my big toe! I screamed myself silly, obviously. Blood gushed everywhere. Thank goodness Mom was close by. She grabbed a towel and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. My siblings crowded around. I could tell by their angry faces that they were afraid our trip might be canceled because of my stupidity. Mom called the doctor and we ran right up. I seem to remember some stitches, but I could be wrong…I was pretty hysterical.

As it turned out, we didn’t have to cancel our trip; it was just delayed by a few hours. Mesa Verde was beautiful, but I didn’t enjoy it much. Like every other trip I took as a child, I was incredibly carsick and miserable. Not even my radio could make me feel better…an apple a day doesn’t really keep the doctor away, at least not for me.

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Just in Time

It was the summer of 2003. Bossy had just moved home after graduating with her Associates Degree from Snow College. The Gym Rat was between his junior and senior years of high school, and I was facing the pending birth of my ninth child. Our local high school offered summer college classes and other than books, the classes were free.

We’ve told our kids pretty much from the day they were born that we were not planning to pay for their college education although we were hoping and expecting that they would all want one. That made it up to them to figure out a way to get through school without being consumed by debt. We encouraged them to get all the college credits they could before they graduated from the public school system since those classes were mostly free. So the Gym Rat signed up for what they call Ed Net classes. He and the neighbor girl who lived a couple of doors down the street were carpooling several miles to another high school in our district that taught some classes they both needed. Two days a week, he rushed out of the house, picked her up in his little blue Neon and together they would head off to school and arrive at class just in time.

June slid by quickly and Sport was born right on schedule. Life whirled around me as I slid into the new baby stupor. Most of the kids were working and playing, just enjoying summer. My sweetie had a job where he could work home some, so he was around, making sure all was well. One morning, when Sport was about ten days old, the phone rang.

Since I had many calls and well-wishers, I had the cordless phone nearby. "Hello?" I questioned. "This is LDS hospital," the caller began, "We are Lifeflighting your son to our emergency room. Could you please meet us there?" As if through a fog, my brain refused to work. "What?" I had just delivered Sport at that hospital so I thought maybe there was some confusion. "My son is ten days old…" I hesitated when the caller started again, "Your son was in an accident and was unconscious. He is alive and we are LifeFlighting him now. Could you or your husband meet us there?"

The wheels in my brain were starting to spin. Fortunately, my sweetie happened to be home. We quickly gathered up Sport and a diaper bag and climbed in the car. It had been six years since I had received a similar call about my little Princess and her helicopter ride. I guess you could say that my response had something to do with age or experience, but my reaction was completely different. I knew from the phone call that he was alive, and during the 30-minute drive, I tried to prepare myself mentally for what might come next. My sweetie and I discussed the possibility of paralysis or brain-damage, but the physical agony I experienced with the Princess was not there. I had come to the realization that God would choose the path that was best for me and as long as I trusted Him, everything would be OK.

We didn’t know what to expect as we pushed our way through the emergency room doors. The Gym Rat was the only person being treated; his friend down the street had been transported in an ambulance to a hospital a little closer to home (her injuries were minor). I rushed to his side and he reached for my hand. His own was streaked with blood and he had vomit in his hair. One shoe was missing and his pants had been split completely up the side for easy access to all the machines and monitors that were currently hooked up to him. A doctor approached and for a moment time seemed to stand still. "He’s one lucky young man," he said. We waited expectantly. "He’s fine…absolutely fine." My hands started to shake; a typical reaction for me as the adrenaline drains away. The Gym Rat held onto one and smiled. "Yeah," he said. "The worst part was the helicopter ride…it made me sick."

It turned out that he pulled into an intersection when a car came speeding up and over the hill and slammed right into the driver’s side. The impact knocked him out when the airbags failed to deploy, and one of his size 14 shoes was still on the gas pedal. The car raced across a field and stopped abruptly several feet from the side of a house. He was bruised and sore, but grateful to be alive. This is why each and every day of my life I pray for safety and trust that God will keep me and mine on the right path. It sure worked for the Gym Rat. He stopped just in time.

Water Turn for Worse

I’m doing a little rearranging on my blog, so if you are looking for the Food for Thought feature, come back tomorrow. I’ve decided that "F"ood for thought just fits better on a "F"riday. So as your consolation prize, I want to tell you the story of my near-downing that I mentioned yesterday. 

You already know that I’m from small-town Utah. We had irrigation ditches there and that’s how nearly everybody watered their farms. My dad took the water turn a couple of nights a week. I don’t know if he requested them in the middle of the night because of his day job as a teacher or if that’s just how it usually worked out, but on his days to take the water he got up in the middle of the night and headed down to the farm. 

Photo Credit

Taking the water meant pulling the dams on two or three ditches and diverting the water to your field. Water turns were not fun! My dad usually came back exhausted, muddy, and ornery. He often complained that this neighbor had taken his turn early or that neighbor had stolen half the water. The irrigation ditches ran all through our little town and then into a collector that ran under the main streets and into a canal by my grandparents’ house. 

About a half a block from my house on the corner was one of the smaller ditches. It was about three feet across and three feet deep. Most of the time it ran less than a foot of water and we loved to roll up our pants and squish through it with our bare feet. There were several culverts that made exciting tunnels full of weeds and spiders. When the water was mostly gone, the heavy Utah clay dried up and cracked. It was one of our favorite adventure spots, but forbidden by my mother. 

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 One day when I was about six, my older brothers and I and a family friend named Mike sneaked away from the house and headed over to the ditch. It was running at about half capacity, which was way too deep for us to wade, but was oh so fun to throw sticks and leaves and watch them race. Japan and I sat on the edge of the ditch, dangling our feet in the rushing water. New Zealand and Mike were hanging out on the other side of the culvert, watching our sticks and declaring the winner. 

Now remember, we were in a small town and there was no cement or wood to hold back the mud and the edges were slippery. It just so happens that the farmers had been through a day or two before and burned away all the vegetation so the water would flow faster. As I inched along, encouraging my stick to pull ahead of Japan’s, my feet slipped in the sludge, and into the ditch I tumbled. 

I wasn’t afraid at first. I’d been in the ditch many times, but never with the water flowing so fast. I tried to pull myself up but everything was so slippery and the water forced it’s way up my nose and I couldn’t breathe. I clawed at the edges, desperately trying to find something to hang onto. Somewhere I could hear Japan yelling for help but I couldn’t track his voice. I was no longer sure which way was up. I slipped through the culvert and the water ran even faster. I was cold and muddy and totally out of control. 

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 I was terrified! The ditch widened and deepened about 20 feet further down and if I got that far…Suddenly a hand reached through the murky water and grabbed my flailing arm. "I gotcha!" he yelled. Twelve-year-old Mike and 10-year-old New Zealand dragged me through the mud and into the dirt until I was out of harm’s way. I started coughing and bawling while trying to rub the mud from my eyes. Even 8-year-old Japan seemed a little worried and nothing ever got to him. There was no way Mom was going to let us get away with this one…maybe we could tell her we were just trying to help Dad by taking the water turn…

Happy Valentine's Day

Happy Valentine’s Day! Or should I say Happy Single Awareness Day?! That’s what the Drama Queen calls it. One of those days when you are the only one not getting a flower at the middle school or the only one not getting a smootch from your sweetie in the main hall of your high school. Or maybe you’re the only one not going to the Sweethearts Dance or the only one who has a blind date to the Institute Dance. (Hey, Teach, was he in an accident or was he blind at birth?) Seriously though, Valentine’s Day can be hard even if you have someone. 

Our church has a custom called the Adult’s Sweetheart Dance (not to be confused with the Youth Sweetheart Dance). Both are held at the church on the weekend before Valentine’s Day. Paying attention to the posters is critical! You would be in real trouble if you showed up at the wrong one. We have spent many happy hours at these dances, some nights just sitting and talking; taking a break from the kids, and sometimes dancing until our feet hurt. Often we show up near the opening song and stay clear through until the last slow dance. 

So this year we made our annual appearance, danced only two dances (the band was not my favorite), ate an éclair, drove back home to pick up Baby Doll, and then went out to dinner. We were trying to remember if we had ever missed one of these church dances since we moved to this area and we are pretty sure the answer is "no." Although it’s hard to say for sure since they are all pretty much the same. Except for the one in 1997. I had my knee surgery in the fall and I was still not completely healed. We spent most of that one sitting against the wall and just listening to the music. 

It was just before Valentine’s Day in 2001 that my sweetie was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes. We had to skip the eclairs that year and only help ourselves to the carrot sticks and fruit. Then there was 2005. Scout was born the end of November so she was still really small. We took her with and she danced most of the night between us. 

One year they really threw us a curve! There were no eclairs, just ice cream and sundae toppings! Another year somebody got the bright idea that they were having a dance so they needed to take dance pictures. They accosted people at the front door and before they could say anything, they were thrust onto a couch, coached to smile, and their panic-stricken looks were immortalized for all time. Last year they actually put card games out on the tables so those with two left feet would feel like they could participate in some of the activities. 

 They always set up tables so couples can sit around and visit and eat goodies and just think about dancing when a slow song comes on. And this year they added something else…they put huge candy bowls on each table and filled them with conversation hearts, chocolates, chocolate covered pretzels, and gummy bears. We were supposed to get a little cello bag and fill it with stuff from each bowl. It was really just a ploy to get us to talk to people at each table, but we were smarter than that. 

We waited until they played a slow song. Most of the couples got up to dance and that left the tables empty. We quickly visited each candy bowl and scooped up a ton of goodies for our babysitters at home. Then we took our bags out into the hall and stuffed them into the pockets of my jacket. We headed back into the gym, once again giving the photographer the slip, and finished out the last part of the song. We stopped at the refreshment table for another éclair (stocked by my own Prima Donna), and ducked out the door. 

It wasn’t moonlight and roses, but the candy put all the little ones in a sugar-dazed stupor so we were able to spend the last tiny bit of the evening alone in our room. Well, if you call "alone" Curly in the little racecar bed and Baby Doll asleep in the crib…I’d call that a Valentine’s Day success.

Pain and Triumph

I have fat genes and I have fat jeans! Unfortunately for me, thunder thighs seem to run in my family. I’ve been on dozens of diets, but losing weight is definitely one of the hardest things I’ve never managed to do.

When I was pregnant with number 4 I was borderline gestational diabetes. I was unhappy and unhealthy. The scales tipped past the 300 mark and my baby was born at 10 lbs 1 ½ oz. She was beautiful and healthy, but she looked like she was 3 months old rather than a newborn. I managed to drop back below that ugly number, but then I got pregnant again. Number 5 was 9 lbs 2 oz. This trend just couldn’t continue.

It was about that time that we started building a new house in a new neighborhood. I was excited to learn that church sports included volleyball. My sweetie agreed to join me on the co-ed team. I loved to play, but my weight made it difficult for me to move quickly around the court. I tried my best, but one Thursday night I moved toward the ball, heard a small "pop," and that was it. I couldn’t stand up! My knee was totally gone.

My hubby got to me first. He and a neighbor pulled me upright but I had no control over that leg and nearly collapsed. They moved me to the sidelines and then eventually to our car. I had torn my ACL and the only way to repair it was surgery. It was 1995 and the surgical techniques were not as advanced as they are now. I was forced to choose between a cadaver and my own hamstring for the repair. Since I was not excited about the thoughts of someone’s dead body part in me, I chose my hamstring. That was my first mistake!

It is still painful… No one mentioned that it would be a year before I would be able to have mobility without pain. That I would have to wear a brace for months…that crutches were difficult when you had a two-year-old crying and wanting to be picked up. As lousy as the recovery proved to be, one good thing happened…I lost weight! Lots of weight! Over 40 pounds!

It was just too hard to drag myself to the kitchen to get food during the day and I had to rely on someone else to take care of me at night. I managed to keep that weight off and it has made all the difference in how good I feel and how much exercise I can do. The knee still aches when the weather changes, and I have lovely scars that run up the front of my leg, but as far as diets go, it was the one that worked the best.

Fresh Grass and Funerals

I love sports! I love watching them when my kids are participating, but I also have a select few that I love playing. Basketball, softball, and volleyball, not necessarily in that order have been a part of my life off and on since I was about 8 years old. 

Baseball was my first love. I had two older brothers who taught me to play. For some reason I was blessed with a killer throwing arm and I set my heart on playing shortstop on my brother’s Little League team. We grew up in small-town Utah and they didn’t have a girls softball program. When my mom took me to tryouts with the boys, it caused a huge problem. They couldn’t let little girls and little boys play together! Someone might get hurt! 

So they quickly threw together a girls’ league. Anyone from age 8 to age 18 could play on that team (provided that she happened to be a girl, of course). I made the team (everyone did) and sat most of the season. What 8-year-old (even one with a killer throwing arm) could compete with teenage girls? After a year or two they split the teams into several age levels and I finally got my chance. We played from early April until school started the end of August. It was my whole summer life! 

I played until right before I got married and then I played another year after I had my first child. I tried again a couple of years later, but by then we had moved to the Wasatch Front and the teams were much harder to join. Don’t get me wrong, you could sign up, you just couldn’t JOIN. They put me in Center Field where I immediately threw out my arm and was benched for the rest of the season. I didn’t play softball for 20 years and then my best friend asked me to join her as a backup player on a co-ed county rec league. I agreed before I realized how terrifying that prospect could be. I sat and watched the whole first game. 

During the second game they coaxed me onto the field. I still couldn’t throw, but I could catch. They put me on first base. I had never played that position before, but it seemed to work for me. I wasn’t afraid of the ball and some of those men would just burn it in. But like all other fairy tales, that one ended with the season and the team disbanded.

A couple of years later I was asked by my church to be the Women’s Sports Specialist. That meant I had to recruit people to play in our softball league. We had a great time, but I didn’t realize how much it meant to me until my mother passed away. I was in small-town Utah again, arguing with my brothers and sisters about the color of her casket when my dad totally broke down. We left the funeral home under a cloud of despair and gloom. 

My sister’s husband, sensing the breakdown, drove 90 miles an hour to get us back to the good old Wasatch Front. We arrived just in time for the 3^rd inning. Some of the women were insisting that it was time to go, but when I came running across the grass they agreed to one more inning. It was so therapeutic, just being there with my friends, smelling the dirt, and having the opportunity to pound that ball into the outfield. The frustrations and sorrows of the day just melted away and I knew I could face the upcoming funeral and my family. Sometimes life throws us a curve, and sometimes it’s a fastball, but the most important part is just staying in the game.