Well, this has certainly been one hell of a weekend. Just last week, it seemed as if everywhere I went, people were complaining about all the hurricane Katrina evacuees that had invaded their city from New Orleans. This week, they got a taste of their own medicine. When we first heard that another hurricane was already forming, and it might be headed this way, I half-jokingly asked John if he had our evacuation plan plotted out. He replied "Yeah, and it's called Wimberley!" When they started talking a category 4 or 5 hurricane, and we had to spend the entire day disassembling the garden center where I work, taking down all my displays and demolishing everything I had accomplished in the last couple of months, to prepare for the storm, we were no longer joking. I won't go into the boring details, but when I tell you that the trip, which should have taken us three hours to make, ended up taking about 14, you will understand why I was ready to get down on my knees and kiss the ground when we finally made it to Wimberley. Because the horror of Katrina was fresh on everyone's mind, the entire city of Houston decided to evacuate. The only reason we made it out at all was that we were headed west, not north. Many people finally gave up and just went back home to face the hurricane. Thankfully for Houston, Rita turned at the last minute, and they avoided a direct hit. Not so fortunate for others.
Thinking the worst was behind us, John and I set out to have a pleasant extended weekend in Wimberley. Saturday morning we headed out for our usual walk, and before I got five steps down the driveway, I stepped on some loose gravel, and my feet flew right out from under me. I came down hard, with one leg twisted back under me, and took most of the skin off my knee and shin. John was very solicitous, but you could tell he was secretly thrilled that for once it was me, and not him, who had done something klutzy and been injured. If only he could have left it at that! A couple of hours later he was puttering around in the garage, and when he walked in front of his car, the license plate slashed his calf and laid it open. When the kids were small and had assorted injuries, I used to wonder how you would know for sure whether one was serious enough to warrant stitches. When I looked at John's leg, which bore a close resemblance to a butterflied pork chop, there was no doubt in my mind whatsoever. I just yelled "SHIT!", grabbed a huge beach towel to wrap it in, stuffed him into the car, and once again we were off to the emergency room, where he received a dozen stitches. The good news is that when you have a gaping, bleeding wound, they work you in much quicker, and we were out in time to keep our movie date with our friends Dan and Betty. Quite convenient, since the movie theater is practically next door to the hospital, but somewhat humorous since John and I had both injured our right legs that morning, and Betty's right knee was acting up from arthritis, so we hobbled down the stairs of the theater in unison. They took us to their favorite Mexican restaurant afterwards - a great little neighborhood joint called Herbert's Taco Hut. By this time, John's pain deadener had worn off, and he was more than ready for a giant margarita.
The rest of the visit was fairly uneventful, except that I kept imagining that I felt something moving around under my bandages. I had been too chicken to allow John to peel back the main skin flap when he cleaned up my wounds, and now I feared that I might have maggots moving around under there or something. Much to my relief, I discovered that it was just miniscule pieces of gravel working their way to the surface - a process which continued for weeks, if not months.
Thinking the worst was behind us, John and I set out to have a pleasant extended weekend in Wimberley. Saturday morning we headed out for our usual walk, and before I got five steps down the driveway, I stepped on some loose gravel, and my feet flew right out from under me. I came down hard, with one leg twisted back under me, and took most of the skin off my knee and shin. John was very solicitous, but you could tell he was secretly thrilled that for once it was me, and not him, who had done something klutzy and been injured. If only he could have left it at that! A couple of hours later he was puttering around in the garage, and when he walked in front of his car, the license plate slashed his calf and laid it open. When the kids were small and had assorted injuries, I used to wonder how you would know for sure whether one was serious enough to warrant stitches. When I looked at John's leg, which bore a close resemblance to a butterflied pork chop, there was no doubt in my mind whatsoever. I just yelled "SHIT!", grabbed a huge beach towel to wrap it in, stuffed him into the car, and once again we were off to the emergency room, where he received a dozen stitches. The good news is that when you have a gaping, bleeding wound, they work you in much quicker, and we were out in time to keep our movie date with our friends Dan and Betty. Quite convenient, since the movie theater is practically next door to the hospital, but somewhat humorous since John and I had both injured our right legs that morning, and Betty's right knee was acting up from arthritis, so we hobbled down the stairs of the theater in unison. They took us to their favorite Mexican restaurant afterwards - a great little neighborhood joint called Herbert's Taco Hut. By this time, John's pain deadener had worn off, and he was more than ready for a giant margarita.
The rest of the visit was fairly uneventful, except that I kept imagining that I felt something moving around under my bandages. I had been too chicken to allow John to peel back the main skin flap when he cleaned up my wounds, and now I feared that I might have maggots moving around under there or something. Much to my relief, I discovered that it was just miniscule pieces of gravel working their way to the surface - a process which continued for weeks, if not months.
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