avalancher
Arboristsite Raconteur
I asked the nurse when I woke up if they had internet access here at the hospital, and she said they did. When the wife came in to see me, I gave her strict instructions that on the next visit to bring my laptop back with her, I figured you all would like to know how my day went yesterday.
From the onset, I should have known that this guy was going to be trouble. Not that he sounded ornery or anything, in fact he sounded an awful lot like Gomer Pyle. That in itself should have clued me in. Daffy folks always mean trouble. At least for me they do.
The phone rang yesterday, it was Gomer wanting to know if I would be able to deliver a load of firewood to his home, or as he put it, “can you bring some wood out where Im a livin at?”. Sure, no problem, just give me an address and I will work you in sometime this afternoon. He then proceeded to give me directions from town.
“Turn by the old barn, hang a right by the woman that had seven tires hung in the trees in front of her house, go past the guy that likes washing machines real good, and in about five miles turn on Chicken Hollow road. Go past the woman working in the yard because she smells real bad and only knows cuss words. The guy on the left side right after the curve will probably stop you, he sells chickens and is saving up for new teeth for his wife.” He then finished his directions by mentioning that I should go all the way to the end of the road until I could go no further, and stop before I ran over the white thunder bird in the road. He then hung up with such a racket I was sure he had flung the phone out the window.
The last part of his description really puzzled me. Go until the end of the road, stop before I ran over the white thunder bird in the middle of the road. Made no sense to me what so ever, did he think I was going to deliver his wood in a monster truck? I had no idea. But, seeing as how I have never seen seven tires hung up in a tree, and my own front yard collection of washing machines was a little scant, I decided to go on out in the afternoon and take a peek at this character.
I eased on out of town with my load of wood, stopped to admire the tires and washing machines long enough to gather a few stares from the folks gathered around the mailbox, no doubt waiting for the mailman to deliver them a fresh copy of The Wall Street Journal, and finally found Chicken Hollow road. The way that road got its name was immediately apparent as I turned on it, I do believe there were more chickens there than you find at KFC during a meeting of the Richard Simmons fan club.
As I finally came to the end of the road, I was struck by the collection of cars and shacks. I really had no idea what was the house, barn, or outhouse, or which of the vehicles was the current mode of transportation. In the huge collection of vehicles, none could be described as either white or a thunderbird. Just as I thought maybe that this wasn’t really the right place, a loud screeching and honking grabbed my attention from the scenery in just enough time to see a white blur disappear out of sight in front of the truck.
Now, in retrospect, I reckon this is where fatal mistakes were made and things began to really go sour. As I pondered the noise and the white blur, I decided to take a quick peek at what was standing in front of the truck making all that racket. With as much grace and stealth that my ancient old bones and truck door could manage, I slipped the truck into neutral and eased the door open, keeping my right foot on the brake pedal and stepped out on the road.
They say that the shortest distance from one point to the next is a straight line, and I reckon that the attack goose in front of my truck realized instantly that the shortest route to my ankles was straight under the truck. It also provided a neat bit of concealment that was at that moment totally unexpected. As a youngster I had dreams and nightmares about monsters grabbing me about the ankles when getting out of bed in the middle of the night, but somewhere in those dreams someone forgot to mention the same can happen from under a truck. My wildest nightmare had commenced.
The events after that are kind of a blur at this point. The goose at the height of his attack eventually got tangled in my boot strings and decided to break off his attack. Things at this point where bad enough, but sadly that is not where the trauma ended. As I lay there gasping for breath, gravity overtook my idling truck, and it began an ever increasing roll backwards. Even my leg wasn’t enough to put a stop to its suicide roll backwards towards the creek.
Dodge builds some good trucks, but I reckon they are no match for a runaway truck backing down the hill and plowing into a stump. I remember hearing a gut wrenching crunch as my poor old truck hit the stump alongside the creek, then I heard to my surprise a load of wood being unloaded at a feverish pace. Wiping my mud encrusted eyes, I noted that the tailgate had failed, dumping the entire load into the creek. Sad part of it was, the first thought was, “Man, I bet that wood will take some time to dry out.”
I learned later this morning from a friend that stopped by that the load of wood dumped in the creek provided more entertainment than just for the guy who owned the place where I was delivering too. In its course downstream, that batch of firewood plugged up a nearby culvert and flooded out the yard of our local Baptist minister who was convinced that we were about to be on the receiving end again of a great flood. I don’t know if he started work on an Ark or not, but next Sunday I might ask him about it.
I like the third floor at this hospital, the nurses are friendly and not so good looking as to piss off my wife. The vending machine down in the waiting room always has those little donuts with the sprinkles on em, which I have found has a great impact on a speedy recovery. The nurses know me by name, and they keep a little carton of Almond Rocha ice cream in the freezer for my coffee. If I had to be someplace other than home, this would be it.
Sometime later this afternoon, I will have to write and tell you guys about my roommate. Talk about an accident just waiting to happen. I don’t know how he has lived this long.
From the onset, I should have known that this guy was going to be trouble. Not that he sounded ornery or anything, in fact he sounded an awful lot like Gomer Pyle. That in itself should have clued me in. Daffy folks always mean trouble. At least for me they do.
The phone rang yesterday, it was Gomer wanting to know if I would be able to deliver a load of firewood to his home, or as he put it, “can you bring some wood out where Im a livin at?”. Sure, no problem, just give me an address and I will work you in sometime this afternoon. He then proceeded to give me directions from town.
“Turn by the old barn, hang a right by the woman that had seven tires hung in the trees in front of her house, go past the guy that likes washing machines real good, and in about five miles turn on Chicken Hollow road. Go past the woman working in the yard because she smells real bad and only knows cuss words. The guy on the left side right after the curve will probably stop you, he sells chickens and is saving up for new teeth for his wife.” He then finished his directions by mentioning that I should go all the way to the end of the road until I could go no further, and stop before I ran over the white thunder bird in the road. He then hung up with such a racket I was sure he had flung the phone out the window.
The last part of his description really puzzled me. Go until the end of the road, stop before I ran over the white thunder bird in the middle of the road. Made no sense to me what so ever, did he think I was going to deliver his wood in a monster truck? I had no idea. But, seeing as how I have never seen seven tires hung up in a tree, and my own front yard collection of washing machines was a little scant, I decided to go on out in the afternoon and take a peek at this character.
I eased on out of town with my load of wood, stopped to admire the tires and washing machines long enough to gather a few stares from the folks gathered around the mailbox, no doubt waiting for the mailman to deliver them a fresh copy of The Wall Street Journal, and finally found Chicken Hollow road. The way that road got its name was immediately apparent as I turned on it, I do believe there were more chickens there than you find at KFC during a meeting of the Richard Simmons fan club.
As I finally came to the end of the road, I was struck by the collection of cars and shacks. I really had no idea what was the house, barn, or outhouse, or which of the vehicles was the current mode of transportation. In the huge collection of vehicles, none could be described as either white or a thunderbird. Just as I thought maybe that this wasn’t really the right place, a loud screeching and honking grabbed my attention from the scenery in just enough time to see a white blur disappear out of sight in front of the truck.
Now, in retrospect, I reckon this is where fatal mistakes were made and things began to really go sour. As I pondered the noise and the white blur, I decided to take a quick peek at what was standing in front of the truck making all that racket. With as much grace and stealth that my ancient old bones and truck door could manage, I slipped the truck into neutral and eased the door open, keeping my right foot on the brake pedal and stepped out on the road.
They say that the shortest distance from one point to the next is a straight line, and I reckon that the attack goose in front of my truck realized instantly that the shortest route to my ankles was straight under the truck. It also provided a neat bit of concealment that was at that moment totally unexpected. As a youngster I had dreams and nightmares about monsters grabbing me about the ankles when getting out of bed in the middle of the night, but somewhere in those dreams someone forgot to mention the same can happen from under a truck. My wildest nightmare had commenced.
The events after that are kind of a blur at this point. The goose at the height of his attack eventually got tangled in my boot strings and decided to break off his attack. Things at this point where bad enough, but sadly that is not where the trauma ended. As I lay there gasping for breath, gravity overtook my idling truck, and it began an ever increasing roll backwards. Even my leg wasn’t enough to put a stop to its suicide roll backwards towards the creek.
Dodge builds some good trucks, but I reckon they are no match for a runaway truck backing down the hill and plowing into a stump. I remember hearing a gut wrenching crunch as my poor old truck hit the stump alongside the creek, then I heard to my surprise a load of wood being unloaded at a feverish pace. Wiping my mud encrusted eyes, I noted that the tailgate had failed, dumping the entire load into the creek. Sad part of it was, the first thought was, “Man, I bet that wood will take some time to dry out.”
I learned later this morning from a friend that stopped by that the load of wood dumped in the creek provided more entertainment than just for the guy who owned the place where I was delivering too. In its course downstream, that batch of firewood plugged up a nearby culvert and flooded out the yard of our local Baptist minister who was convinced that we were about to be on the receiving end again of a great flood. I don’t know if he started work on an Ark or not, but next Sunday I might ask him about it.
I like the third floor at this hospital, the nurses are friendly and not so good looking as to piss off my wife. The vending machine down in the waiting room always has those little donuts with the sprinkles on em, which I have found has a great impact on a speedy recovery. The nurses know me by name, and they keep a little carton of Almond Rocha ice cream in the freezer for my coffee. If I had to be someplace other than home, this would be it.
Sometime later this afternoon, I will have to write and tell you guys about my roommate. Talk about an accident just waiting to happen. I don’t know how he has lived this long.
