Go to Abundance for more selections, including other original pieces by Dane Allred and his audio versions of many famous short stories and poems called Literature Out Loud, plus lots more!!
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
FINGERNAIL FILE
Growth can come from bad experiences. We tend to learn better when there is pain involved. I get a reminder to be more careful every time I trim my fingernails.
We have some really old cabinets from the 1970's in the kitchen, and updating them would have set us back several thousand dollars. As school teachers with summers off, sometimes we do the work instead of hiring it out. The dark stain on the cabinets was atrocious, and I determined to take one of the cabinets down and sand the darkness off. Certainly a coat of light oak over the veneer would look better than the darkness that dominated the kitchen, and after the first cabinet was done, Debbie declared she liked it. Since then she has said she would like to put them downstairs and get new cabinets, but for two summers I was a dedicated sander and stainer, making those old cabinets look like new. They don't look bad if I do say so myself. So what if it took two years?
Sanding with a belt sander was a new adventure for me, and as I have become used to scarifying myself, I was very careful. I even made it through the first summer with minimal damage; mostly some sanded skin which grows back quickly. The project was looking great, and here I was in the second summer, ready to finish off the last door of the section I was going to get done before school started. After this section, there was the pesky lower section by the sink, but that would have to wait. I was determined to get this part done before I started teaching again.
One of the problems with a belt sander is that the belt doesn't always sit securely on the sander, and no matter how I pried this particular belt, it didn't want to cooperate. There was only a sliver of belt left to get onto the sander, and whatever I tried didn't work. It seemed as if I could use my little finger to get it into the small slot, but it just wouldn't budge.
Perhaps if I turned on the sander.
And as quickly as that, my little finger zipped through the sander. The belt was now seated correctly, but from what I could tell, I had just sanded off the fingernail on my right pinkie. It was hard to tell because the blood was gushing out. I only had a little bit of cabinet left to sand, and I knew from past experience that after an injury like this, I wouldn't feel much like sanding after today. So I figured if I just wrapped my finger up in some paper towels, it might bleed slowly enough for me to finish this last door. Then at least when I went to stain these cabinets later, they would be all done. So, with the energy a fresh burst of pain gives you, I sanded away and got the last part done in a jiffy, thanks to the brand new belt which was now on the sander. It may have been a little bloody, but it chewed up the wood like a champ.
I went into the house and unwrapped the pinkie. It was bright red and very sore. I couldn't see any fingernail left. I smeared some Neosporin on it and wrapped it up in a few band-aids. I knew from my toenail experience earlier in my life that it would grow back, and based on how nice my new toenail looks, I was hopeful for another beautiful replacement.
That was not to be. Apparently, I sanded off all but the smallest corner of my fingernail. I guess it would be the rightmost part, since the nail grew back, but it grew back sideways. Now when I cut that fingernail, it is off to the side about twenty degrees, and sometimes is still painful, especially if I cut it short. I know from experience that the doctors can fix it, but I don't mind it so much; especially when I look at my other scars on my right hand.
There are several cuts from my woodcarving adventures. My hand aches when the weather changes because I broke one of the bones in my little finger. I’ve jammed fingers so many times I know I need to wait a year before all the swelling goes down and my digits get back to normal size. My thumb pops and cracks and often aches, but that also runs in the family.
But all these scars, emotional, mental and genetic are good. I am all of the experiences I’ve had, and maybe one of these days I’ll learn not to stick my nose, or my little finger, where it doesn’t belong. Then again, maybe not.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Increase -- a limerick by Dane Allred
Click on the player to hear an audio version by the author.
Increase
To guarantee my mind complete peace
I’d have money and smarts without cease.
I would just like some growth
Why can’t I have both
Can't my knowledge and wealth both increase?
Go to Literature Out Loud -- Poems for a complete list of all poems available at Literature Out Loud.
Increase
To guarantee my mind complete peace
I’d have money and smarts without cease.
I would just like some growth
Why can’t I have both
Can't my knowledge and wealth both increase?
Go to Literature Out Loud -- Poems for a complete list of all poems available at Literature Out Loud.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Abundance Humor Nov. 7th
This is the complete episode of "Abundance" called "Humor" from Nov. 7th.
Click on the player to hear this episode.
Click on the player to hear this episode.
The Office Bore by Mark Twain
Go to Literature Out Loud -- Short Stories for a complete list of all short stories available at Literature Out Loud.
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece.
The Office Bore
by Mark Twain
He arrives just as regularly as the clock strikes nine in the morning. And so he even beats the editor sometimes, and the porter must leave his work and climb two or three pairs of stairs to unlock the "Sanctum" door and let him in. He lights one of the office pipes--not reflecting, perhaps, that the editor may be one of those "stuck-up" people who would as soon have a stranger defile his tooth-brush as his pipe-stem. Then he begins to loll--for a person who can consent to loaf his useless life away in ignominious indolence has not the energy to sit up straight. He stretches full length on the sofa awhile; then draws up to half length; then gets into a chair, hangs his head back and his arms abroad, and stretches his legs till the rims of his boot-heels rest upon the floor; by and by sits up and leans forward, with one leg or both over the arm of the chair. But it is still observable that with all his changes of position, he never assumes the upright or a fraudful affectation of dignity.
From time to time he yawns, and stretches, and scratches himself with a tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now and then he grunts a kind of stuffy, overfed grunt, which is full of animal contentment. At rare and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the eloquent expression of a secret confession, to wit "I am useless and a nuisance, a cumberer of the earth." The bore and his comrades--for there are usually from two to four on hand, day and night--mix into the conversation when men come in to see the editors for a moment on business; they hold noisy talks among themselves about politics in particular, and all other subjects in general--even warming up, after a fashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a real interest in what they are discussing. They ruthlessly call an editor from his work with such a remark as: "Did you see this, Smith, in the Gazette?" and proceed to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his impatient pen and listens; they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after hour, swapping anecdotes and relating personal experiences to each other-- hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with distinguished men, election reminiscences, sketches of odd characters, etc. And through all those hours they never seem to comprehend that they are robbing the editors of their time, and the public of journalistic excellence in next day's paper.
At other times they drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, or droop limp and pensive over the chair-arms for an hour. Even this solemn silence is small respite to the editor, for the next uncomfortable thing to having people look over his shoulders, perhaps, is to have them sit by in silence and listen to the scratching of his pen. If a body desires to talk private business with one of the editors, he must call him outside, for no hint milder than blasting-powder or nitroglycerin would be likely to move the bores out of listening-distance.
To have to sit and endure the presence of a bore day after day; to feel your cheerful spirits begin to sink as his footstep sounds on the stair, and utterly vanish away as his tiresome form enters the door; to suffer through his anecdotes and die slowly to his reminiscences; to feel always the fetters of his clogging presence; to long hopelessly for one single day's privacy; to note with a shudder, by and by, that to contemplate his funeral in fancy has ceased to soothe, to imagine him undergoing in strict and fearful detail the tortures of the ancient Inquisition has lost its power to satisfy the heart, and that even to wish him millions and millions and millions of miles in Tophet is able to bring only a fitful gleam of joy; to have to endure all this, day after day, and week after week, and month after month, is an affliction that transcends any other that men suffer.
Physical pain is pastime to it, and hanging a pleasure excursion.
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece.
The Office Bore
by Mark Twain
He arrives just as regularly as the clock strikes nine in the morning. And so he even beats the editor sometimes, and the porter must leave his work and climb two or three pairs of stairs to unlock the "Sanctum" door and let him in. He lights one of the office pipes--not reflecting, perhaps, that the editor may be one of those "stuck-up" people who would as soon have a stranger defile his tooth-brush as his pipe-stem. Then he begins to loll--for a person who can consent to loaf his useless life away in ignominious indolence has not the energy to sit up straight. He stretches full length on the sofa awhile; then draws up to half length; then gets into a chair, hangs his head back and his arms abroad, and stretches his legs till the rims of his boot-heels rest upon the floor; by and by sits up and leans forward, with one leg or both over the arm of the chair. But it is still observable that with all his changes of position, he never assumes the upright or a fraudful affectation of dignity.
From time to time he yawns, and stretches, and scratches himself with a tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now and then he grunts a kind of stuffy, overfed grunt, which is full of animal contentment. At rare and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the eloquent expression of a secret confession, to wit "I am useless and a nuisance, a cumberer of the earth." The bore and his comrades--for there are usually from two to four on hand, day and night--mix into the conversation when men come in to see the editors for a moment on business; they hold noisy talks among themselves about politics in particular, and all other subjects in general--even warming up, after a fashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a real interest in what they are discussing. They ruthlessly call an editor from his work with such a remark as: "Did you see this, Smith, in the Gazette?" and proceed to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his impatient pen and listens; they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after hour, swapping anecdotes and relating personal experiences to each other-- hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with distinguished men, election reminiscences, sketches of odd characters, etc. And through all those hours they never seem to comprehend that they are robbing the editors of their time, and the public of journalistic excellence in next day's paper.
At other times they drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, or droop limp and pensive over the chair-arms for an hour. Even this solemn silence is small respite to the editor, for the next uncomfortable thing to having people look over his shoulders, perhaps, is to have them sit by in silence and listen to the scratching of his pen. If a body desires to talk private business with one of the editors, he must call him outside, for no hint milder than blasting-powder or nitroglycerin would be likely to move the bores out of listening-distance.
To have to sit and endure the presence of a bore day after day; to feel your cheerful spirits begin to sink as his footstep sounds on the stair, and utterly vanish away as his tiresome form enters the door; to suffer through his anecdotes and die slowly to his reminiscences; to feel always the fetters of his clogging presence; to long hopelessly for one single day's privacy; to note with a shudder, by and by, that to contemplate his funeral in fancy has ceased to soothe, to imagine him undergoing in strict and fearful detail the tortures of the ancient Inquisition has lost its power to satisfy the heart, and that even to wish him millions and millions and millions of miles in Tophet is able to bring only a fitful gleam of joy; to have to endure all this, day after day, and week after week, and month after month, is an affliction that transcends any other that men suffer.
Physical pain is pastime to it, and hanging a pleasure excursion.
An Encounter with an Interviewer by Mark Twain
Go to Literature Out Loud -- Short Stories for a complete list of all short stories available at Literature Out Loud.
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this short story.
An Encounter With An Interviewer
by Mark Twain
The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with the Daily Thunderstorm, and added:
"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."
"Come to what?"
"Interview you."
"Ah! I see. Yes--yes. Um! Yes--yes."
I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said:
"How do you spell it?"
"Spell what?"
"Interview."
"Oh, my goodness! what do you want to spell it for?"
"I don't want to spell it; I want to see what it means."
"Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if you--if you--"
"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."
"In, in, ter, ter, inter--"
"Then you spell it with an h"
“Why certainly!"
"Oh, that is what took me so long."
"Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?"
"Well, I--I--hardly know. I had the Unabridged, and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."
"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest e--- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world, but you do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm-- I mean no harm at all."
"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes--yes; they always speak of it with rapture."
"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."
"Indeed, I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"
"Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"
"Oh, with pleasure—with pleasure. I have a very bad memory, but I hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory-- singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me."
"Oh, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can."
"I will. I will put my whole mind on it."
"Thanks. Are you ready to begin?"
"Ready."
Q. How old are you?
A. Nineteen, in June. __
Q. Indeed. I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?
A. In Missouri.
Q. When did you begin to write?
A. In 1836.
Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?
A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.
Q. It does, indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?
A. Aaron Burr.
Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years!
A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?
Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?
A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to make less noise, and--
Q. But, good heavens! if you were at his funeral, he must have been dead, and if he was dead how could he care whether you made a noise or not?
A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.
Q. Still, I don't understand it at all, You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead.
A. I didn't say he was dead.
Q. But wasn't he dead?
A. Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.
Q. What did you think?
A. Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.
Q. Did you--However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth?
A. Monday, October 31, 1693.
Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that?
A. I don't account for it at all.
Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.
A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy, but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing!
Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters?
A. Eh! I--I--I think so--yes--but I don't remember.
Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard!
A. Why, what makes you think that?
Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?
A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it; that was a brother of mine. That's William--Bill we called him. Poor old Bill!
Q. Why? Is he dead, then?
A. Ah! well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.
Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?
A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him.
Q. Buried him! Buried him, without knowing whether he was dead or not?
A. Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough.
Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead
A. No! no! We only thought he was.
Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?
A. I bet he didn't.
Q. Well, I never heard anything like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?
A. Ah! that's just it! That's it exactly. You see, we were twins-- defunct--and I--and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill. Some think it was me.
Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think?
A. Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark--a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was me. That child was the one that was drowned!
Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.
A. You don't? Well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! --don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this.
Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present, and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?
A. Oh! it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery, and so he got up and rode with the driver.
Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company, and I was sorry to see him go.
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this short story.
An Encounter With An Interviewer
by Mark Twain
The nervous, dapper, "peart" young man took the chair I offered him, and said he was connected with the Daily Thunderstorm, and added:
"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you."
"Come to what?"
"Interview you."
"Ah! I see. Yes--yes. Um! Yes--yes."
I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said:
"How do you spell it?"
"Spell what?"
"Interview."
"Oh, my goodness! what do you want to spell it for?"
"I don't want to spell it; I want to see what it means."
"Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if you--if you--"
"Oh, all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."
"In, in, ter, ter, inter--"
"Then you spell it with an h"
“Why certainly!"
"Oh, that is what took me so long."
"Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with?"
"Well, I--I--hardly know. I had the Unabridged, and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."
"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest e--- My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world, but you do not look as--as--intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm-- I mean no harm at all."
"Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter and who could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes--yes; they always speak of it with rapture."
"I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."
"Indeed, I had not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?"
"Ah, well--well--well--this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club in some cases; but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"
"Oh, with pleasure—with pleasure. I have a very bad memory, but I hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory-- singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me."
"Oh, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can."
"I will. I will put my whole mind on it."
"Thanks. Are you ready to begin?"
"Ready."
Q. How old are you?
A. Nineteen, in June. __
Q. Indeed. I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?
A. In Missouri.
Q. When did you begin to write?
A. In 1836.
Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now?
A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.
Q. It does, indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?
A. Aaron Burr.
Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years!
A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?
Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?
A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to make less noise, and--
Q. But, good heavens! if you were at his funeral, he must have been dead, and if he was dead how could he care whether you made a noise or not?
A. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.
Q. Still, I don't understand it at all, You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead.
A. I didn't say he was dead.
Q. But wasn't he dead?
A. Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't.
Q. What did you think?
A. Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.
Q. Did you--However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth?
A. Monday, October 31, 1693.
Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that?
A. I don't account for it at all.
Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.
A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy, but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing!
Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters?
A. Eh! I--I--I think so--yes--but I don't remember.
Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard!
A. Why, what makes you think that?
Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?
A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it; that was a brother of mine. That's William--Bill we called him. Poor old Bill!
Q. Why? Is he dead, then?
A. Ah! well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.
Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?
A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him.
Q. Buried him! Buried him, without knowing whether he was dead or not?
A. Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough.
Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead
A. No! no! We only thought he was.
Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?
A. I bet he didn't.
Q. Well, I never heard anything like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?
A. Ah! that's just it! That's it exactly. You see, we were twins-- defunct--and I--and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill. Some think it was me.
Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think?
A. Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark--a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was me. That child was the one that was drowned!
Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.
A. You don't? Well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! --don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this.
Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present, and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?
A. Oh! it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery, and so he got up and rode with the driver.
Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company, and I was sorry to see him go.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Ladder Follies
Go to Abundance for more selections by Dane Allred, including other episodes from Rules of Engagement, plus lots more!!
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
Ladder Follies
I’m reminded of this story from a few years ago because I’ve been painting the porch recently. I’ve told a little about it before, but here’s the full version.
It's still the same summer, I'm still painting "elephant" over the old aluminum siding, and if I do say so myself, it is looking very good indeed. I am so pleased with the results I almost can't wait to be done to see how the house looks when completed.
One problem area of the house has been the northwest corner. The ground descends from the front yard where extra dirt had been brought in during construction. The ground is uneven, and painting this high side of the house is a challenge. I had problems several years ago when I tried to paint all the trim green. After falling from this corner and spilling the paint at the same time, I simply quit and left the rest of the back trim brown. After cleaning up green paint off the stucco on the corner, I threw in the towel.
Determined not to be outdone by the corner architecture this time, I had an extra tall and sturdy ladder for painting the trim. Unfortunately, the grape arbor built on that side had grown tremendously during the past years, and I was forced to push the ladder up through vines. All was going well until I reached the dreaded corner. The ladder could be opened for stability, but the arbor wood was in the way. The solution? Lean the ladder against the wood frame of the grape arbor.
I had forgotten these particular posts were not the most stable of the bunch. In fact, as I climbed up to the tallest part of the corner with my feet at least ten feet off the ground; I was reaching to paint sideways. As I leaned in to get the last parts, the grape arbor began to move away from me under the ladder. As the ladder descended in slow motion, it literally took my feet out from underneath me with it. I was now hurtling to the earth from fifteen feet up.
To understand the landing, it's important that I explain that I had watered this section of lawn earlier that day, after having fertilized with the broadcast spreader. The ground was soaked; there were tiny white pieces of fertilizer scattered around. Perhaps the water had softened it up a bit. But the ground did seem very solid.
I landed flat on my back. The wind was knocked out of me, and as I gasped for breath, I realized I was laying in a pool of water , mud and fertilizer. I rolled on my side, and my back popped a bit, which I considered a good sign. At least I could roll, and my back didn't seem to be broken. Popping a couple of vertebrae actually seemed to lessen the pain, but I still didn't know if I could stand up - or even if I should stand up.
As usual, no one else was home for me to even call for help. I had just locked the dogs in the kennel so I could concentrate on painting that obstinate corner. So I couldn't depend on a Lassie moment where Kase or Kurbis could run to the neighbors and somehow communicate that Dane had done it again.
I resigned myself to the fact that I had to rescue myself, and, of course, this wouldn't be the last time. I rolled slowly to my knees and gradually sat up. Besides being covered in mud and ammonium sulfate, I considered myself lucky to be alive, with no broken bones.
I stood slowly and looked at the ladder. The wood arch of the grape arbor was at a 45 degree angle to the ground, with the ladder lying on top of it. I didn't think it was going anywhere. I looked around for the paint - at least this time I hadn't painted the foundation. I put the lid on the paint, let the dogs out of the kennel, took them and the brush in the house and took off my clothes and left them on the back porch.
After putting on some sweats and taking some ibuprofen, I laid down on the bed to marvel at the persistence of my guardian angel. I waited a few days before going back up to paint the heavens, but I knew if I waited too long the back of the house would go undone again. I chose an easy part to paint on the short back side, and regained my ladder confidence back a few strokes at a time. I eventually got the rest of the house painted without falling from a ladder again. Give me a while. I’ll fall again.
Click on the player to hear an audio version of this episode.
Ladder Follies
I’m reminded of this story from a few years ago because I’ve been painting the porch recently. I’ve told a little about it before, but here’s the full version.
It's still the same summer, I'm still painting "elephant" over the old aluminum siding, and if I do say so myself, it is looking very good indeed. I am so pleased with the results I almost can't wait to be done to see how the house looks when completed.
One problem area of the house has been the northwest corner. The ground descends from the front yard where extra dirt had been brought in during construction. The ground is uneven, and painting this high side of the house is a challenge. I had problems several years ago when I tried to paint all the trim green. After falling from this corner and spilling the paint at the same time, I simply quit and left the rest of the back trim brown. After cleaning up green paint off the stucco on the corner, I threw in the towel.
Determined not to be outdone by the corner architecture this time, I had an extra tall and sturdy ladder for painting the trim. Unfortunately, the grape arbor built on that side had grown tremendously during the past years, and I was forced to push the ladder up through vines. All was going well until I reached the dreaded corner. The ladder could be opened for stability, but the arbor wood was in the way. The solution? Lean the ladder against the wood frame of the grape arbor.
I had forgotten these particular posts were not the most stable of the bunch. In fact, as I climbed up to the tallest part of the corner with my feet at least ten feet off the ground; I was reaching to paint sideways. As I leaned in to get the last parts, the grape arbor began to move away from me under the ladder. As the ladder descended in slow motion, it literally took my feet out from underneath me with it. I was now hurtling to the earth from fifteen feet up.
To understand the landing, it's important that I explain that I had watered this section of lawn earlier that day, after having fertilized with the broadcast spreader. The ground was soaked; there were tiny white pieces of fertilizer scattered around. Perhaps the water had softened it up a bit. But the ground did seem very solid.
I landed flat on my back. The wind was knocked out of me, and as I gasped for breath, I realized I was laying in a pool of water , mud and fertilizer. I rolled on my side, and my back popped a bit, which I considered a good sign. At least I could roll, and my back didn't seem to be broken. Popping a couple of vertebrae actually seemed to lessen the pain, but I still didn't know if I could stand up - or even if I should stand up.
As usual, no one else was home for me to even call for help. I had just locked the dogs in the kennel so I could concentrate on painting that obstinate corner. So I couldn't depend on a Lassie moment where Kase or Kurbis could run to the neighbors and somehow communicate that Dane had done it again.
I resigned myself to the fact that I had to rescue myself, and, of course, this wouldn't be the last time. I rolled slowly to my knees and gradually sat up. Besides being covered in mud and ammonium sulfate, I considered myself lucky to be alive, with no broken bones.
I stood slowly and looked at the ladder. The wood arch of the grape arbor was at a 45 degree angle to the ground, with the ladder lying on top of it. I didn't think it was going anywhere. I looked around for the paint - at least this time I hadn't painted the foundation. I put the lid on the paint, let the dogs out of the kennel, took them and the brush in the house and took off my clothes and left them on the back porch.
After putting on some sweats and taking some ibuprofen, I laid down on the bed to marvel at the persistence of my guardian angel. I waited a few days before going back up to paint the heavens, but I knew if I waited too long the back of the house would go undone again. I chose an easy part to paint on the short back side, and regained my ladder confidence back a few strokes at a time. I eventually got the rest of the house painted without falling from a ladder again. Give me a while. I’ll fall again.
Abundance -- Giving Oct. 31st
Go to Abundance for more selections, including other original pieces by Dane Allred and his audio versions of many famous short stories and poems called Literature Out Loud, plus lots more!!
Click on the player to hear the complete episode "Giving" from Abundance broadcast on Oct. 31st.
Click on the player to hear the complete episode "Giving" from Abundance broadcast on Oct. 31st.
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