Two things in life can get me throwing things at walls. The first, I’ve mentioned before, is the Chinese Descending Computer Chair. The other is the snowplows going by at fifty mph spraying all the sand they laid down for twelve hours off the road and 12-feet onto the front yard. Either of these events may push me over the fence I’m balancing across as I walk through life, and drive me deep into irretrievable madness.
And today, I came (this) close. After snowblowing the driveway and shoveling a path to my shop, I heard the plow coming. My trick is to grab my jacket, the shovel, and run outside quick and look like I’m in the middle of it. They usually lift their plow and go by before dropping it back down. Three times I ran out, twice it was a jet low-riding into Bradley Airport. Yes, I waved the shovel at the sky just to make a point.
The third time, I wasted precious seconds telling myself it was another jet. By the time I opened the door, the plow was upon me, unable to shift gears. I got plastered by slush and sand.
I have been meekened by this experience, yes; but I suspect I’m that much closer to the edge. It also looks like my goal of someday being known as the crazy old lady on Punch Brook Road is more than a dream.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology