9/13/2011 – For months, we recommended a trike bike for my mom. “No,” she replied, “that is embarrassing.” After a doctor’s visit where he said “she better use it or loose it” she changed her mind. Fast.
I think she looks grand on it. Since I have the only pickup truck in the family, transportation fell under my responsibility. My sister picked up the bike’s tab.
I promised not to repeat any of my prior transportation snafus. Plus, three oopsie daisies were already under my belt and we all know things happen in threes. The three prior incidents are:
1. When my sister moved from the western part of the state, her husband loaded the bed of my truck with their newborn’s baby shower gifts. It was jammed so tight with presents; he promised me they would hold each other in. Two-hours into my drive as I flew down route 64, the baby saucer caught wind under the box and set sail at lightening speed out of my truck. The car behind me swerved and thankfully was safe. By the time I exited, proceeded on the other side of the highway, exited again and followed my prior steps, I found nothing but many pieces of colorful plastic bits lining the highway. |
2. You would think experience would teach me to be more careful. A few years later my mom asks for me to get my grandmother’s chair from Mammy’s house. She is going to refurbish it. I figured I knew enough about aerodynamics and the wind flow that it was safe resting against the cab. After all, surely the air would flow over the roof, down onto the chair and keep it in place. As I hit 50 mph’s on a 2-lane highway, it set sail, hit the road, bounced nicely and rolled off into the ditch. Reattaching the broken wooden legs became part of the refurbishing project.
3. Lastly, my parents sold their home and moved into a neighborhood near a bus stop that provided lawn service to the residents, plus had a master bedroom on the main floor. Perfect place to grow old together. My mom nicely packed up her clothes in these tall, moving boxes that allow you to hang them on a pole inside. Dad asked me to move them. “Really?” I reply. “We will go slow,” he replies. It is impossible to get there without going on a 45 mph highway at some point. We go early on a Sunday when traffic should be light. We pick a route that ensures we will only be on the highway for 1-mile. I proceed down the road at 30 mph with people pissed off and swerving around me. We are 2-blocks, 2-blocks I say from the turn when all three boxes tumble out on the 2-lane road. Out of the truck we zoom, grabbing items right and left. Months later my mom questions why she has grass in her clothes and my dad coughs up the truth.
Anyway, the trike made it safe and sound. |
