JOY ALONG THE WAY: A POSSIBLE CHANGE IN CAREERS

I done gone and faw down and went Boom! Splattered my kneecap, I did, and put one of Rodman's fanciest tattoos on my cheek. There is no discernible, artistic pattern to the tattoo unless it be a spin-off of the Splat Realist/ Blue, Black, Purple, Glazed with Red School of Tattooistry.

There I was, just going along, happy as the little flock of finches singing nearby, when my right foot, unauthorized by me, decided to wander off the beaten track and try balancing on the edge of the concrete walk. It didn't balance. Down I went, a living, moving hypotenuse, opposite a perfect 90-degree angle, my chin and left kneecap trying out the density of the sidewalk. Naturally, the rest of my body was connected to the chin and knee and went along, not having been allowed a choice nor even a clump of cattails to break my fall or a cat's tail.

"Shucks," I said, instead of "**$%1@?#" and "&*$%+1?Z!" which I thought wouldn't be ladylike. The unspoken words hung in the air, though, causing a blue haze, which made it difficult to discern if there be any neighbors around in the yards. There are usually three or four, but this balmy afternoon, everyone was off to the races, a beer barrel polka or cock fighting for all I know.

It occurred to me that I should get near to a telephone, so I started scooting backwards towards the nearest one I knew of; scooting, since I found out quickly that I couldn't stand up. There were five feet of up-hill, concrete-walk scoots, five scoots up the back steps (whew!), six scoots across the back porch, ten scoots across the kindly linoleum covered kitchen floor, ten more scoots across the dining room carpet (unfriendly for scooting), to where I could reach up and pull down a phone.

Unless I'm still addled, that is 36 scoots. Now, with each scoot backwards on your derriere, one's slacks and undies tend to move in the opposite direction I'm not all that tall and by the time I got to the phone ... oh, well.

I flipped, tugged, and scratched the telephone book down to the floor. Where were my glasses? Out there by the sidewalk, no doubt, broken into 16 pieces. Have I memorized any of my neighbors' telephone numbers? Of course not. That's for well-organized people. I could have found "0" for operator, or 911, but I did know a clear-across-town friend's number and managed to fumble it in the proper order. She came, as she always does when out-of-the-ordinary things happen.

Steve and Viney were notified, too, one county south. After protracted hours of indecision when everything seemed all right, it was decided that I should go to the Emergency Room. I got quick attention there on account of the unusual facial tattoo. "But it's my knee," I kept insisting.

Bulky leg brace, crutches, pain and pain killers, instructions, have-a-good-day, etc., etc.

There is a little oozy place behind an ear too. Do you suppose my brains are leaking out? My writing brains? Oh well, I've always sort of leaned toward becoming a cartoonist. Whadaya think?

Rejoice?

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.