Although current events should be of consequence to all of us in the long run, there are two factors that lead us to personal stories as a default. One is the fact that contradictory information could cause “misinformation.” The other is that no matter what we do, the purpose of the law has been corrupted to preserve power and not allow upstarts, even though it was upstarts that gave us the opportunity to be a part of a country where walls are built to keep others out, instead of the other way around. So give me a week and let’s escape to the final entry in the Columbia Helicopter stories.
It was a Friday, so the doctor put a plaster cast on my leg before the swelling had run its course. My low threshold of pain tolerance didn’t help. It was obvious to me but the nurses had to fool around all day and night before they took the little cutter thing to that cast. When they got it done, with a loud pop it spread open about a half inch and the pain vanished.
I’ve always thought having a terrible job to start life is essential for future happiness. Well, I felt great after that loud pop. My roommate in this eight-bed hospital was a big old guy. I enjoyed visiting with his visitors. They were a lively group. One of them asked who the loader operator was and they almost all said in unison, “No wonder.”
After a couple of days I was on a plane to Los Angeles where my dad’s mother (Nana) came up to coddle me for a while. It was almost worth breaking a leg to spend so much time with Nana. She was my best friend through my rebellious youth. After a month I moved to Newport Beach where Mom waited on me, then back to Montana where my good friends carried on for Nana and Mom for a while.
I lived like a king on workman’s comp.
The bag with my boots and other gear was sent by Greyhound bus. I didn’t see it until a year later when it turned up in Cleveland. I had to pay back the $150 insurance settlement for them to return my $500 worth of boots and gear.
I got pretty good with that full-length cast and crutches and when they had a dance up at the Elk Creek Lodge, I was pretty dangerous with it dancing. I’m a lousy dancer. Like bowling, I just let it fly as hard as I can. Maybe this was a precursor to the infamous polka that made Dawn seasick at the high school Nostalgia jazz band event years later.
Like I said, this column serves as a cop-out. It wraps up the Columbia story and hopefully buys time to sort out a bunch of media contradictions.
Food for thought: The $1.9 trillion stimulus divided by 145 million taxpayers amounts to $13,000 each. This could be simpler. (Thanks to my friend, Thomas DiLorenzo.)
So, Fritz, I see that the $1.9 trillion coronavirus relief package that President Biden just signed includes billions of dollars in debt relief and other assistance for farmers of color. Maybe, owing to your beard, you could pass for a light-skinned Bangladore Indian. As a farmer/rancher, what is your view of this attempt to right the 260 year wrongs of America’s endemic and thus systemic racism?