An Incredible Adventure

Many things have happened within my life which have made my life journey an unexpected adventure. I will admit that most of those happenstances were because I came in contact with other persons that were living their own lives and I just happened to be participating in that same moment of time.

One such moment in time was when I accepted a job and became a co-worker with Cindy. We moved into an apartment together, and worked for the ILGWU (International Ladies Garment Worker’s Union). We were part of a team that did physicals, with eye exams and blood work on factory workers. That experience gave me a new appreciation for the workers who produced our clothing. Some factories were amazing places with air-conditioning and bright lights, others were old wooden, or brick, structures that were hot in summer and cold in winter. What stood out was how hard those women worked to produce their paycheck.

Cindy and I were a team. Not only did we live together, if our team had to schedule a home-visit for a worker, Cindy and I were the ones sent out on the road. One such visit was an unexpected adventure. We set out with our medical supplies we would need and the address that office was given for the factory worker. When we got to the address we saw a regular home (one of identical one in a row—what I grew up calling a row-home—go figure). We were looking for “apartment #5) and Cindy and I discussed if the house actually had 5 apartments in it, or should we call in for verification of the address.

We decided that since it looked like a normal house with a basement (apartment #1 and/or #2), plus a main floor (apartment #3 and/or #4), then the second floor (apartment #5 and/or 6) than the attic which perhaps housed additional apartments. Perhaps when we went through the front door we would find steps leading up to each level of apartments. We double checked the house number and we were where we were supposed to be, so we opened the front door.

What greeted us was a large living room with a woman in a flowing-flowered robe walking into the room with her morning coffee. Cindy and I were used to this morning attire when doing home visits, so we explained who we were and who we were looking for. The woman was so gracious and welcoming for someone surprised by strangers walking in through her front door at 7 a.m. We indeed had the wrong house, but the woman invited us to have coffee with her and showed us around her house like we were best of friends. We were shown her collection of shamrock plants, and her piece of the REAL Irish Blarney Stone, her ceramic leprechauns, her four leaf clovers, and added to all this hospitality she gifted us with hand made match kits.

You may be wondering what a match-kit is. In this case it was a plastic lid from something like a Krylon spray paint can which had been carefully covered with wallpaper. The lid was filled with match books that had been covered with the same flamboyant wallpaper. Cindy and I had such an amazing and interesting time with the woman we unexpectedly paid a visit with we laughed and had joy that whole day. We eventually got to our original patient, but I will tell you I kept that little gift for years beyond that job and day to remind me of the joy of unexpected encounters and gracious hospitality.

Cindy and I were a wonderful team together throughout this time in our lives. We lunched together at the farmers market which was located on the first floor of our office/laboratory building everyday. We watched from the apartment porch the arial show of the Blue Angels as they flew over the town. We would go to watch baseball games that her boyfriend played in, and went to river-side parties. I tend to have a cautious nature and I showed my true nature when some young men at the party decided to swim across the river and back just before a thunder storm—the goal was to “beat the storm.” I voiced my opinion about doing this stunt at 10pm, in the dark, not one of the brightest things to do. I wasn’t very popular with the crowd that night.

Cindy’s family owned a dairy farm very close to the city where we lived and we often went there for dinner or recreation I can remember learning how to ride a motorcycle on that farm (I never told my parents about that, by the way, SO DON’T TELL THEM). My first try was quite memorable. WE started in the driveway of the house and we roared down the driveway—it was exhilarating. However at the end of the driveway I failed to negotiate the righthand turn onto the road that would take us around the farm acreage and headed up the bank toward the BIG RED AND WHITE BARN. I would have added to the “red color” on the barn, if the motorcycle had not stalled out from the steep incline I was on. WHEW! THAT WAS A CLOSE BRUSH WITH DEATH! I did indeed learn how to navigate around the farm on a motorcycle and that was one of our favorite activities.

I remember one day at “The Farm” a bull got loose. I was well aware of farm animals getting loose on occasion and I never had a problem with horses, dogs, chickens, or cows, I grew up with them. Some horses will try to “crowd you out to see if they can intimidate you,” but as long as you push through that moment they’re domesticated enough to allow you to maneuver them to where you want them to go. Cows are so used to being herded everyday a pat/slap get’s them going in the right directions. Chickens—tend to be free spirits, but corn set on a path toward the coop generally worked for me. Likewise with dogs—the right treat can force compliant.

I had two parrots, a macaw, and two dogs at one time and each of them had their own specific “treat” they would do “anything for.” For Checote the parrot, monkey biscuits were a magic ticket; for Hot Rod the parrot, peanuts were golden; Camelot the macaw, almonds in shells would get him to do anything I wanted; Keegan-dog lamb jerky was a go-to “I’ll follow you anywhere” treat. Farley Barley, dog of my heart, the promise of a car ride to anywhere is the only method to corral him. But a “bull” on the loose is whole other kettle of fish, or dilemma, as you might say.

The funny thing about the whole “Bull-on-the-loose” thing was that the bull in question actually would walk up to me and stand there with me, calmly, quietly, and we would stand there watching everyone go crazy. Everyone would shout at me to “GRAB HIM!” Now, I like the phrase “My mama didn’t raise no fool” for this situation. This bull was four times the size of me, and if I know anything about bulls they are not the most cooperative group of personalities. They tend to like their personal space, and like to keep it that way. They aren’t touchy, feely type personalities and I refused to throw my arms around that bulls neck to see what would happened next. (Am I right about that???) Grabbing it by the ear or tail didn’t seem like options either, which begs the question, once more, where does one “grab a bull?”

Every time someone came close to us, the bull would “run for it,” but as long as I stood where I was, the bull would return to me. I finally asked for a rope to try to snag him with and for someone else to pull him to where they thought he should go. There are some animals I allow to “live and let live” without my interventions. Motorcycle riding is as exciting as I can go versus Bull riding.

I really am a very cautious person when it comes to safety—coward some might say, but I admit being a coward has gotten me to this old age in relative health and safety. My body aches are more from sports like baseball, skiing, ballet, touch football, and tennis and I accept that. Bull riding and corralling I’ll leave to others who are more adventurous than I am.