On Solid Ground 1995

Holidays usually help set the mood for the season, and Memorial Day weekend is the kick-off for early summer and all the enthusiasm for outdoor activities. Let's face it, for most Americans, Memorial Day opens the door to the outside and gets things rolling. And so it was this last Memorial Saturday when my biking pals and I headed to our favorite route along the banks of the Rouge River for our first workout of the year.

We were slow getting started with skinny tires needing air, derailleurs begging for oil, helmets needing adjustment, and tools missing or lost. But we did get underway as the sun broke through the early morning clouds and as a light breeze pushed us on. Now it takes a couple miles for rider and bike to get comfortable and in sync. By mile four I was spinning at a decent heart-pumping rate with my friends trailing closely behind. Nearing a bridge across from a golf course, I checked my odometer...17mph. Not bad, not bad at all. As I came over the bridge, I noticed the almost-all blue sky merge into the lush greens of the fairway to my left. I eased off the road onto the paved shoulder still thinking of the unfolding day and then BAM! Lights out! Lights on!

In the bicycle vernacular it's called an "endo" when the rider goes over the handlebars and lands in front of the bike. I remember the loud heavy thud of my helmeted head smacking the pavement. (There are times when I can still hear that sound.) After the initial hit, my body followed and fell forcing my face into a concrete slide and to a skidding stop.

Carefully lifting my head from the ground, I realized three important things: one, I was not dead, yet, and two, the ever-enlarging pizza-size pool of blood was mine, and three, my Spandex cycling shorts were still on. I heard my friends approach and rush to my aid. Soon sirens seemed to be coming from all directions and getting louder, and I thought about...well, I thought about the mess I was in.

I thought about my daughter's high school prom that very night. I thought of my son in from Chicago for the weekend. I thought about my wife getting this news. I thought of my classroom and the end-of-year grades, report cards, and records. I thought of my eighth graders and missing Cedar Point and Graduation with them. Actually, all that thinking took my mind away from what was right in front of me: my road-rasped face.

The EMS crew arrived, examined me, asked some questions, wrapped my head and right hand in gauze and adhesive tape, and strapped me to a neck board for the trip to the hospital. Once there, ER nurses and doctors made plans for the restoration of my face and hand. After an hour's worth of Xrays and CAT scans, the plastic surgeon arrived, introduced himself, and said, "I think I can put everything back where it belongs." Reassuring? I hoped he was right.

After some time in surgery, I awoke in a recovery room and groggily began to inventory my situation. An IV was stuck in my left arm. My nose was thickly taped, but mostly back in the middle of my face. My lip was sutured inside and out and swollen to the size of a fat thumb. I could see bandages on my right hand and feel the stiffness of bandages on or near my forehead, cheek,chin, neck, and eye. Without looking in any mirrors, I knew one thing for certain: I was a sight for sore eyes!

By Memorial Day I was home in my own bed. There was no patriotic parade, no smoky bar-be-cue, no family gathering, no laughter, no joy of spring, just the beginning of a long, tedious recovery.

Now, that holiday weekend has long passed, but memories and scars of that worst of days remain and will, no doubt, surface from time to time. It was, indeed, a memorable day for a Memorial weekend...one I won't easily forget.

Love Your Neighbor

Yesterday as I was mowing my lawn, my neighbor waved and walked over to where I was bagging grass clippings. She and her husband had just moved in next door during the past winter. They're young, energetic, and a 90's modern couple. A great addition to the block.

"We're going to be gone for a week," she said, "hiking and camping with friends in Kentucky. I was wondering if you could do us a favor?"

"Absolutely, sure, do you want me to keep an eye on your flowers, pick up your mail...what?"

"Thanks, but I was hoping you'd take care of Lucy."

I didn't answer right away. Thinking the worst that a Lucy would be in my house...I was silent for a while. Lucy is a cat and I don't much care for cats. "Well, I don't know..."

My neighbor could sense my apprehension. "Oh, Lucy's almost self-sufficient. She's an indoor cat and she's so sweet."

Instead of saying "no" which is what I really wanted to say, I said, "So, what's involved in watching a cat?"

"All you have to do is put food in her bowl twice a day and give her fresh water."

That didn't seem too tough. So I said, "Okay, I'll watch Lucy. "My neighbor's face lit up into a billboard-size thank you smile.

"Why don't you come over when you're finished out here and I'll show you where her food is kept and you can meet Lucy."

After sweeping up and putting my yard tools away, I went to my neighbor's house. Inside I was pleased to see that Lucy ate dry food and not that gross-looking stuff in those small tins. Then I was introduced to Lucy. "Mike, this is Lucy, now Lucy say 'hi' to Mike," my neighbor joked. Lucy sauntered by, gave me a cat-eye look, and brushed up against my leg. "See, she's marked you, she likes you."

Lucy turned out to be kind of good looking for a cat. She had a thick coat of large chocolate, tan, and white swatches...a calico cat, I was informed. "When should I feed her?"

"Oh, in the morning before you go to work and then again in the evening between five and seven. And by the way, Lucy likes it when you talk to her while she's eating."

"Talk? What kind of talk?"

"Just anything really. She eats and digests better when someone is in the room with her."

"Why not just leaving a radio or TV on?"

"She likes a real person, she can tell the difference. I've tried.."

As I started to leave and think about what I had agreed to do, my neighbor asked if maybe I'd like to hold Lucy. Now, I grew up with dogs, hunting dogs, German shepherds, and all sorts of hounds. I've picked up plenty of dogs. I know what that feels like and what to expect. Cats, that's a different story. So reluctantly and slowly and carefully, I bent down to pick up Lucy. Weird sensation. Unlike holding a dog, there's not much substance to a cat...sort of cotton candy with whiskers and a meow. After finding something to grab, I held Lucy for a full ten seconds and happily placed her in my neighbor's open, welcoming arms. With the introduction and hands-on lesson behind, I was done.

The day before her trip south, my neighbor checked in with last minute instructions. "Are you ready for Lucy?"

"I am and I'm looking forward to my week with your cat."

"It should go great. Lucy's such a good cat. There is one thing, though."

I have to be honest, I don't like the sound of phrases like that. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's really wrong. It's a very common condition for female cats to develop slight urinary tract infections, and Lucy has one."

Now I don't know much about a cat's anatomy, but I have a pretty good idea of where a urinary tract problem ends up and that's not pretty. "What do I have to do about that?"

"Oh really nothing...just medicate here in the morning."

Imagining a whole litter of disgusting possibilities, I asked, "How exactly do I medicate this infection?"

"Easy," she said, "just use the dropper in the bottle and add it to Lucy's food, she likes the taste."

"Great, that I can do!"

My seven days with Lucy went by quickly and rather uneventfully. As she became familiar, she would appear at the side door the very moment the key turned in the lock. She greeted me with what, perhaps, looked like a feline happy face. Anyhow, the care of Lucy went smoothly enough: not a single hissy fit, no mood swings, and, definitely, no attitude confrontations. Lucy was a good cat. For her size, I was amazed at the amount of food she ate. Many times I found a perfectly cleaned out bowl when she finished. It must have been my interesting dinner conversation that inspired her voracious appetite.

The week ended as calmly as it began. Lucy's owners were excited to be reunited with their pet and were pleased with the cat's care and their neighborly care giver.

I walked away relieved and a little puzzled to tell the truth. It was good to know that I had successfully handled a first-time situation. And although I didn't become a cat-lover convert, I have to admit (only privately) that at least I did like a cat named Lucy, my new neighbor.