Birds, Sprains, and Go Karts

Jordan in the blue jacket and oversized helmet.
Logan & Jordan below.

The following is an excerpt from the family Christmas letter I sent out in 1997. Jordan and Logan were 8 1/2 and Lyndsi was 7 when this was written.:


"...Last year Santa's main gift to the boys was a go-kart. Their dad gave them helmets to wear when riding it, which of course is a good safety feature, but the helmets are about 1/3 the entire size of the boys. You should see them! They look like a cross between a Power Ranger and Marvin the Martian, but the purpose is served, I guess.

Their step-dad has been teaching the boys about hunting, shooting, and gun safety for over a year now. They each own a 410 at this point. (I hope that is correct. The other day I called it a "411" and I don't think I have ever witnessed such disgust.) The best way to describe how they feel about hunting is to say that they are "eat-up with it." Jordan was keeping a running tally of how many birds he had shot until dove season started this year. I haven't heard him quote a number since then, so I don't know if he is still keeping the tally or not.

Back in May I went for an Aerobic/Power Walk (i.e., walking as fast as you can, for as long as you can, swinging your arms like a wild woman) and twisted my ankle, causing a big goose egg to pop up on my left ankle. I had heard a rustling noise behind me and thought this dog that had tried to attack me about a month before was loose and after me again. Anyway, I heard a loud, "Pop!" and fell to the ground. Pretty painful. I was out of hollering range so, Power Walk abruptly halting, I had to try and get back home on my own, using my dog-weapon stick as a make-shift cane.

As soon as I got into hollering range I got Jordan (my #1 "9-1-1" man) to come after me in the go-kart. He spun around behind me, came to a screeching halt beside me, and told me to hop in. I guess he was pretending to be the Chief Ambulance Driver. I don't know. Anyway, on the way home, me grimacing as he hit every pot-hole, he proudly told me about killing bird #15 in one shot. Then, rocks flying, he breezed into the driveway while I hung on for dear life, my foot dangling, lifted as high as I can lift it into the air.

Out of the house came Lyndsi. While Jordan was giving me a lift, she had decided the bird wasn't dead, just unconscious. She had found the First Aid Kit and had wrapped the dead bird's wing in a bandage. She had also made a soft bed out of extra bandages for the dead bird's comfort. She talked to the bird about anything and everything, telling me that unconscious [people] can still hear and you should talk to them. The bird got regaled about how puffy Mom's foot was and what care we were taking with it. Every once in a while, she lifted the dead birds eyelid and asked if he could see her, that she could see him. I told her to get the dead bird out of the house, which ensued a disagreement on whether the bird was dead or not. Finally, I told her dead or not, I didn't want HIS mites in MY house.

The next morning Lyndsi got ready for school early so that she could go and get the dead bird out of the barn for a visit; Jordan asked if I still had a boiled egg on my left ankle. I made pit-stops all along the way to work to get an ACE bandage and Grand Paul's walking cane. The doctor finally saw me that afternoon and decided my ankle wasn't broken, just badly sprained. I had to pay extravagantly for a lovely lime green and white air brace that I wore for a few weeks. My ankle, 7 months later, is still giving me problems. The bird was finally buried, dug-up, buried, dug-up, and buried by the end of May. Logan officiating at all burials."