‘Boy, Them Ain’t Cantaloupes’


This summer has been filled with changes. First, after celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary June 19th, Steve and I began our second half-century together. Thankfully, as I have become, shall we say, less youthful, God has blessed by dimming Steve’s vision. He thinks I look better now than when he married me. Please don’t tell him any different.
Secondly, after my dad has lived independently and/or semi-independently for his ninety-eight years, time has come when he needs twenty-four hour supervision. He now resides in an assisted living facility. He says he’s happy there, and truly seems to be – until the staff asks him to do something. The stubborn mule syndrome seems to surface then.
But to cap the stack, I seem to have become a porn star. Now let me explain that one. I have two great horses. Some might call them plugs, but I’ve cherished them because they are so good with my grandchildren. All of them have fed them bread, watermelon, cantaloupe, apples, or whatever over the fence. I’ve taught the children how to hold the food in their hands in a position to avoid the horses biting them accidentally. From the time they could sit astride the horses, they have. Very gently, knowing they were carrying a precious load, the horses would follow me circling the yard, and the children would think they were in complete control because they held the reins.
With that said, I will tell you, I’ve always respected the strength and size of these equines. I do now even more. My brother-in-law and his wife brought out their visiting granddaughters for a swim and for them to see the horses. I gave them hotdog buns to feed Smoky and Sisco. Kathryn, the oldest sister, came in to report Elizabeth, the younger, was exciting the horses with her squealing. I thought nothing of it because, as I said, they are gentle animals. But to be on the safe side, we adults moved outside to supervise.
I had dressed earlier in the day for another event in a shimmery light orange shell and lime green pants. As I do so often, I walked over to the fence with the girls to pet Smoky and Sisco. In my normal natural motion, I reached up with my right hand to pet Sisco’s head. Well, that’s when disaster, or should I say, ‘disboobster’ struck. Before I knew what had happened, Sisco reached over the fence, grabbed my left breast with his teeth, picked my ample body off the ground, shook me, and threw me backwards. He must have seen the orange and thought it was a cantaloupe. Pain! That was all I could sense at the moment. My thought was, “Boy, ‘them ain’t’ cantaloupes.”
Elizabeth was crying because she felt responsible, I was holding my breast trying not to let anyone know how badly it hurt, and those around were picking me up from my graceful fall. I refused to go to the emergency room. I said, “What can they do that we can’t here for a deep bruise and a scratch – except laugh.” After icing my injury and taking Advil, I managed to keep tears at bay until our guests left.
Then my husband Steve made a call to our surgeon son Steve Jr., who is Chief of surgery at University of Missouri. “Your mother is injured bad and is in a great deal of pain,” he reported and recounted the incident. “We found an old bottle of pain medicine from a dental procedure several years ago and wondered if it would be okay for her to take it.”
Coincidentally, Lucien Newman III, from Gadsden, our son’s friend and my surgeon, was sitting across the table from each other eating dinner at the time. Dr. Newman told Steve I might want to come to his office to let him check out the injury the next afternoon when he would be back in the office. I did.
Apparently, the sight of this black boob was shocking even to him and his nurse. She covered her mouth and winced as she felt my pain; Dr. Newman suggested he make a picture with his cell phone and send it to my son in Missouri. I agreed, but I told him, now I’ll never be able to run for President because nude pictures of me are floating in the airwaves.
As I said in the beginning, this summer has been one of change. My Technicolor boob may well be the greatest change of all.

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