Whose Fault Was It?

Here in the good ol’ US of A it isn’t so much what happened anymore, it’s whose fault is it that it did happen.  So, it was in that frame of mind that I began the accident investigation into how the fourth toe on my right foot became broken on Sunday evening.

Here’s what happened.  At approximately 6:00 pm on Sunday I was walking from my chair in the living room into the kitchen.  As I rounded the corner of the kitchen counter I caught my foot on a leg of one of the counter stools, and hit it so hard that I fell to the floor clutching my foot in pain.  The next 24 hours were taken up by a fitful night’s sleep, doctor visits and x-rays.  But this morning, with only the pain to think about and facing 3-4 weeks off of the bicycle, I thought it appropriate to try to get to the bottom of how I got into this predicament.

Now you might be asking yourself, how does my clipping my foot on the leg of a stool become anyone’s fault but my own?  The easy assumption would be to say that the whole thing is due to my own damn clumsiness.  But finding that an unacceptable cause, like any good investigator I looked deeper.  I asked myself, “Why did I clip that stool leg.”  Then I remembered that earlier in the day the man from Anti-Pesto was at the house for his regular preventive bug spraying.  In preparation for his arrival I had pulled the stool out of its normal position, so that he could more easily spray along the base of the counter.  Now again, the easy call would be to blame me, because after the guy sprayed, I didn’t put the stool back in its proper position.  But once again, upon looking deeper, I had to lay the blame elsewhere, this time on Anti-Pesto.  If that guy hadn’t come out to spray in the first place, no broken toe.  Was that assessment fair?

I decided, no, there had to be something else involved.  I thought back on how I had just finished my cocktail before getting up from my chair to go into the kitchen.  Hmmm, could I be charged with a WWI, “walking while impaired?”  Then it dawned on me.   I had just finished a new cocktail I was “experimenting” with.  I’m not sure what it is called, but I made it by pouring Campari in a glass over ice (I didn’t measure).  Then I put in a shot of Beefeater’s gin, and finished it off with some soda water and (in keeping with my nutrition advice) a slice of orange (to make it a “balanced meal.”  I have to be fair and say that it is possible that pouring that amount of alcohol into a person of my size could impair judgement and other things, like depth perception.  So my fault, right?

Emphatically, no.  That outcome being unacceptable, I analyzed the cocktail thing further.  Until recently I’d never even tasted Campari.  What got me hooked on cocktails with Campari in them?  Well, that’s easy.  Campari is made in Italy, and I tasted it for the first time on my recent bike trip to Italy.  And why was I in Italy, BECAUSE THE PRINCESS SAID I SHOULD GO.  It’s all her fault.  And once again it has been shown that thorough, scientific investigation yields the correct result.

Now that that is settled we can move on.  Look at this.

cannon ball

I was struck with how happy that kid looks and thought, yeah, when  I was nine, I’d a been one proud, happy kid too if I’d a found a live cannonball.  Hell, at 67 I’d be tickled to find one.  Of course three-fourths of the article ranted on about how no one should mess with live, civil war munitions, kind of ruining the whole fun of the thing.  Funny, further on in the paper I came across this ad.


Uh huh, I was just “thinking” the other day, Cremation, wouldn’t that be great… right.  When my “time” is near, I think I’ll just go cannonball hunting.  I’m pretty sure that just messing with a live cannonball would take care of everything in one “swell foop,” both the ashes and the sprinkling thereof.  Moving on.

Tractor News
Holy cow, that’s right, temperatures dropped into the 80’s, so I got a few days of work in on the Pony.  Here are a few pictures.

You may think you’ve seen these photos before, but actually what you saw were photos of the other side of the tractor with the wheel off.  Even though the Pony may have looked fairly complete, I had never gotten around to doing the inside of the left rear wheel and that axle housing.  By the way, you’ll note that I am wearing safety glasses and a mask.  The mask is to protect your Idiotic author from the lead most likely lurking in the Pony’s 60-year-old paint.  The glasses are to protect against pieces of wire that fly off the wire brush attachment to the electric drill.  Interestingly, three days after that photo was taken I felt something like a sliver in my ankle.  I got a tweezers, pulled on the offending sliver and found it to be a 3/8 in piece of wire from the drill attachment neatly imbedded in my ankle.  Like my dad always used to say before any of his three sons left on a date, “Always wear protection.”

Finally, you know I have no compunction about writing of things scatological, but how about that third photo…of my stool!  After my stool in the garage kept disappearing (OK, it wasn’t really my stool) Lynne got a fancy one of her own just for doing yard work, and she designated this one for my use only.  I couldn’t be happier.  Thanks, Lynne!

Gads, 3 to 4 weeks off the bike!  I guess that’ll teach The Princess a lesson.  Just sitting around here on my keester, I’m gonna drive her nuts!  Thanks for reading.


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