My new point and shoot camera, the Canon SD850 IS has arrived. Wanted to use it last night, but didn’t want to waste shutter actuations on pics of white walls, ceilings or your typical ‘I got a new camera, let me take a pic of me taking a pic with the new camera in my bathroom mirror and use the built-in flash.’
I wanted the first thing this camera viewed to be placating imagery equivalent to puppy dogs or ice cream cones. A butterfly landing on tip of the nose of the most adorable baby.
So, this morning, I got up and took some photos in my landlord’s garden. Here it is, the first image captured.
Yep, that’s it. Wasn’t paying attention and let the flash go off. But I wanted to be true to the exercise and show the very first image. Then, here are a couple more of the neighborhood cats.
Few know this, but I’ve always had the ability to drive cats wild when petting them. They–domesticated and feral cats alike–come from far and wide to experience the magic that drips from my fingertips. In a couple of instances, I’ve laid in bed and listened to an orchestra of cats outside my window meowing it up; beckoning and calling out to me “to come out to plaaayyy. . .”
It usually goes like this: the cat scoots close to me. A couple gentle pets around the face, couple down the back and they are comfortable. I then pet around the area where the tail meets the back. Within minutes they’re writhing on the ground, gnawing on their tails and/or paws, licking cement, carpets or whatever surface they happen to be laying upon. Its true, and perhaps somewhat uncomfortable to watch as these cats go into the most utterly ecstatic experience you’ve ever seen.
I don’t know, there may be some niche market out there that I could corner with this. www.intense-cat-petting.com? It doesn’t exist yet. . . I checked.
I broke my arm.
Last night I broke my arm. Well, actually Mike broke his arm and now I’m sitting next to him coaxing the words out him. Mike wants to pull out his encyclopedia of literary terms to define what it is we’re doing right now, double narration? Anyhow…the story.
Ummm, long story short (yeah right) I went in to pitch in the bottom of the sixth inning as the PSSBL only allows its pitchers to pitch a maximum of five innings per game and Chris Park, our veteran ace, had just completed his tour of duty on the mound (see, how short this is becoming?). I retired the side in the sixth with ease, no one reached base, no walks, three up three down, I believe. Bottom of the seventh, I go in, I throw my first warm-up pitch, make an “aaaah” sound that’s only audible to myself and the catcher, Andrew Rafferty.
He shouts out, “Are you good?” I say, “Yeah, I’ll be good.” After his throw down to second, he approaches the mound and says, “Are you sure you’re good to go kid? It’s only one game. Don’t hurt yourself for one game.” I say, “No, I’m fine. I wanna do this.”
Things get a little gray, but I believe I strike out the first batter, then someone gets a hit. I walk one, and that’s about as much as I remember before I get two strikes up with no balls on one of the batters. I believe Andy called a fast ball and I was thinking the same thing he was, a high fast ball out of the zone. I reach back and with all I had I deliver the pitch.
I go into my motion, my body goes forward and my arm stays behind and immediately I hear a snap. Everything goes white and I topple like a ton of bricks. I’m writhing on the ground making all sorts of deep guttural moans and yelps. As I twist on the ground, I see my forearm in what appeared to be the distance. My first instinct is to grab it and bring it close and I do so and quickly immobilize my once muscular arm which now seems to resemble a door snake, only this one is 30 pounds of dead weight.
About 20 faces descend, two questions for each face. Puppy dog eyes in a few. Genuine looks of despair, worry. Horror. My legs are elevated. Ice is brought. Minutes later an ambulance in the distance. Quickly enough the parameds, with help from my teammates, support my back as I stand up. The crowd, opposing team and spectators clap as I make my way to the ambulance where they fashion a sling for the ride to the ER.
At this point Mike is distracted by his pain, so I’m afraid he’s not a reliable narrator. I arrived at the ER to find Mike being prodded and questioned, eyes downcast in pain and concentration. When the doc left us alone in the room, he told me he was going to “tough it out” sans modern chemistry. It didn’t take much to convince him to accept a morphine drip and the doc immediately got him started. That took the edge off things, but only slightly masked the pain.
Last night was the last time Mike will ever pitch, and his last game of the season. It will also put a dent in his photography business. But he will be busy nonetheless, stitching together the humerus bone that the fast pitch had cleanly and efficiently snapped apart:
The nurses splinted him with fiberglass and ace bandages to allow for some swelling, then he goes back in a week for a plaster cast. Surgery is an option if his bone doesn’t take to healing. If all goes as expected, it should heal within 4-6 weeks.
Those ER nurses are tough cookies. A Friday night must keep them busy, but having to set Mike’s 30 pound arm while he was conscious was quite an exercise. Hats off to them!
I drove slowly and gently to Walgreen’s for Mike’s pain killers, ibuprofen, Gatorade and Chili Cheese Fritos. Then we hit Jack in the Box for a cheeseburger, probably not what the doctor ordered, but I almost never argue with Michael’s stomach. By the time Michael was settled into his couch, it was 3 am. And here is Michael today, he wants all his people to know he is fine and will carry on as usual. As for me, I’m going to take a nap.