How My Busted Ankle Got Me Where I'm Going

Hey there, Harriet here, well I’ve been having quite a time, as you can plainly see by that cast on my leg. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore-just itches. You see I was waiting for Henry, my son, and Prudence, my daughter-in-law to arrive for Christmas when I got a little over anxious and started hanging ornaments on the tree without them. I stood on a chair and tried to reach a high spot when I fell like a bowling pin, flat down. I heard a crack. I thought it was a tree limb but no, it was my my limb, my ankle to be exact. Humphrey knew right away. He made sure I didn’t try and get up (I couldn’t anyway) and sat near me licking my hand and whimpering while we waited for the kids to show up. Which they did. Prudence knew it was broken right away. I refused to admit it. But  several hours later, I was back from the hospital, sitting in the living room with my leg in a cast and humble pie on my face. I thought for sure it was just sprained but no, busted clear through. The doc said I’d be in this infernal cast at least six weeks, maybe eight given the fact that I am an older American, a seasoned citizen. But Prudence and Henry are all upset and are making me move to Grass Valley, California to live with them. Because apparently I can’t take care of myself anymore. Okay, fine. But guess what, I’m doing it my way. I’m taking the bus. And not just one or two, nope I’m taking public transportation clean across the United States. I don’t care if I have to ride in a hundred buses. I figure I want to see some of the country before I die, I mean Lord knows, my husband never took me anywhere, except the Jersey Shore every summer but that don’t count. Nope, I’m taking the long way. Of course Humphrey will have to fly in a plane. But I’m not telling him yet. I don’t think he’ll like the airplane and I’ll have to break the news to him gently, preferably after a can of sardines and a donut—for him, not me.  I’ll miss having him along for the ride or rides as the case may be, but there you go. Harriet Beamer is taking the bus.

I’m not exactly sure when I’ll leave. That depends on the ankle and how quickly I can sell this house. Oh dear me, this house. My husband built it with his own two hands well, his and some workers and lots of nails and wood. But still, it’s got sentimental value, as I suppose all our homes do. It will be hard to leave but it’s time I suppose. She’s a good house and she needs a family, with kids and a dog. Excuse me while I wipe a few tears and blow my nose.

Anyhoo, I’ll keep you informed and let you know when I set out on my trip across America. The next thing I need to do is pack my collection. Won’t Prudence be surprised when all those boxes of salt and pepper shakers show up at her door. Love me, love my shakers—oops, now that didn’t come out right. But you get the idea.

So keep coming back to the blog. Who knows, you might see me at a bus stop in your town. We can have coffee and talk.