Human tragedy in the Hill Country!

Human tragedy in the Hill Country!

If you are a faithful reader of this blog you should seek help from a mental health professional, and you may recall that my wife and I own a hunting ranch in the Texas hill country. Or it owns us. I am not really sure. We go out there. We work like dogs to keep the place up, and then drive home. This is not a hobby for the faint of heart or for someone who actually likes to enjoy their leisure time.

The last time we were at the ranch we discovered that the toilet in the guest bathroom was broken. The water in it must have frozen last winter and broke the ceramic bowl. I brought with us a new toilet to replace it. (Not really new, of course. This is an old one from my house where I installed an actual new one. I am too big a cheap-scape to buy a new toilet for the Hill Country house) Let me say right here that I hate replacing toilets. I have six rent houses and two of my own houses. So over the years I have had to repair or replace lots of toilets. There is nothing more awkward to work on than a toilet, unless it is working under a sink. OK, I hate working under a sink even more than working on a toilet.

To get the toilet back in to operation, I needed to re-use the tank. But I could not get the tank bolts loose from the old bowl. They were all rusted up. I decided to use a hammer and break the bowl where the bolts were attached. I think I recall seeing this technique in a PBS television show called "This old crappy ranch house". The hammer technique worked. I broke the bowl, pulled off the tank and installed it on the new (OK, used bowl). The replacement toilet installed easily. Why is it I hate this job, again?

OK, so the toilet was installed. All I had to do was take the toilet seat off of the broken bowl. But when I grabbed the old bowl I badly sliced my index finger on the sharp edge of the broken ceramic. I had no idea that the ceramic would be that sharp. The ancient Aztec Indians, rather than using obsidian to make knives, should have just broken pieces off their toilets. My index finger looked like it was cut to the bone. It was pouring red liquid out like I had spilled a bottle of Big Red soda.

I wrapped my hand in a towel and my wife drove me to town. She found the Doctor’s office which was just off the town square. Dr. Todd is 75 and still practicing medicine. He took me in to the back, shooed the chickens off the examination table and took a look at my finger. Of course, I knew that it was just barely dangling on with only 98% of my poor finger still attached, so I was hesitant to unwrap it. He calmly asked me if I really needed that finger. I said “It comes in handy for picking my nose”. He said “OK, I can save it”.

He scrubbed it and shot it full of pain killer. (someone should invent a pain killer that does not hurt when going in). Then I held a flashlight for him as he delicately sutured the cut. He put five stitches in my finger. I had never seen this done before. All the other times I have gotten stitches, they have been in my head, so I never saw the procedure. Dr. Todd was a master at stitchery. He put cute little bows and curly cues on my stitches. I think he spelled out “Jesus Saves”. Then he gave me a tetanus shot and anti-biotics and told me to come back to his house in the morning to get the dressing changed.

They don’t make old time country doctors like him anymore. He doesn’t take credit cards and has his patients come to his house when he is not working at the office. I told my wife that the Dr. said that as a result of my injury I could never do dishes again or install any more toilets. It was just too risky. And he even wrote me a prescription for taking naps and getting back rubs. What a great Doctor!

I am sure I am on the road to a full recover, but I plan to milk this injury to the fullest. I am relaxing as I watch my wife clean the floors and do housework. I wish I could help, but I can’t risk going against Dr.s Orders. I should have thought of this scam years ago. I have nine more fingers that have room for stitches. And I think it is time for my physician directed nap.

the Road Warriors, an ode to India drivers

The Road Warriors an ode to India drivers.

Greetings Gentle readers, it is time for a current report from the country of India. It has been at least two years since I visited this odd country. And I mean odd in a good way if anyone from India, who holds a grudge, is reading this. As usual, I am here on business. Why would any right thinking person come here except for commerce? The title of this piece is “the Road Warriors” because I am going to attempt to describe the drivers in this country. As worldly as I may consider myself, there are no words to adequately describe the horrendous traffic and congestion in India. There are just too many drivers trying to use too few roads in India.

Westerners should never consider driving here. One reason is that they drive on the wrong side of the road. This is very dis-combobulating for the passenger sitting in the front left seat. I keep trying to grab the invisible steering wheel and stomp on the missing brake to help my driver. My Indian driver seems determined to get me to my location with as little of my dignity intact as possible. He must enjoy seeing me scream like a little girl while he shoots the gap between an 18 wheeler and a stalled bus. The last trip I made to India we actually had a side view mirror knocked off in traffic. But these drivers don’t use mirrors anyway so it was not a loss.

There is no way to really appreciate the street activity without visual evidence of what is going on, but you will just have to use your imagination. A typical intersection might have four roads coming together. There are lane markers, and signs but these are completely ignored. If the road was designed for four vehicles across, then the Indian road warriors will make sure there are six or eight cars jammed in that space. And then motorcycles and bikes will fill in the tiny gaps. My driver is constantly shifting gears and honking his horn. He is the most dexterous man I have ever seen. He honks, shifts, steers and gestures at the other drivers; all while careening fearlessly thru a crowded intersection. The horn in our vehicle sounds like someone is strangling a goose. It must be effective because everyone gets out of our way at the last moment. Maybe strangled geese are worshipped in this country.

There seems to be some unspoken communication going on between all these drivers. I’ve never see a wreck but is seems impossible that with all the cars and trucks on the road that none of them ever collide. If I were poetic, I might describe the traffic flow as a symphony of movement but that would indicate planning. Or it could be described as a school of fish moving in unison. But that image would fail to include all the fish frantically swimming in the opposite direction with large barracudas barreling in among them.

To imagine what the traffic is like here you need to think in terms of a “Grand Theft Auto” video game type situation. And in India, just like the video game, it is every man for himself. My driver is determined not to let anyone pass him or get in his lane. It is a matter of personal pride for him to force old ladies, children and motorcyclists off the road. We’ve come within inches of hitting trucks yet he is as cool as a Zen Master. I wish I was so calm. I envy Fred Flintstone. I want to put my foot thru the floor to brake this thing.

The Indians who are the calmest are the pedestrians along the road. I’ve watched men stand right in traffic and text on their cell phone as cars and trucks zoom past them. Maybe they are texting a suicide note. But the champions with ice water in their veins are the road construction workers. I saw two guys today, standing in the middle of the road, turning some large handle which extended in to a manhole. The traffic was blasting past on both sides of them and neither bothered to even look. There were no caution flags or construction cones. But don’t worry. They were perfectly safe. They were each wearing a hard hat.

It rained last night and the water on the road has already caused damage to the “pavement”. My driver seems to know to avoid the water filled chug holes that are all over the place. They look like bomb craters. The “pavement” has been repaired many times and so there are humps of asphalt scattered among the craters. And there are speed bumps installed on purpose! in the roadway, about every hundred yards or so. In the U.S. these speed bumps would be considered Motocross jumps. My driver’s technique is to crawl slowly over the speed bump, and then accelerate like mad to keep anyone from beating him to the next speed bump. All the while he is darting back and forth to avoid the holes and slower vehicles. My neck muscles were aching from the whipping my head was doing. Who knew I’d need a neck brace and helmet for this traffic.

My driver speaks English but it is difficult to understand him. The common language here is Hindu. But there are about 127,000 different dialects of the Hindu language. I, of course, as your intrepid traveler, am fluent in most of them, if you count the ones that sound like English. But I am not about to interrupt my driver by speaking to him. He is having his Moment of Zen as he cuts off another 2 ton truck loaded with steel. Maybe it’s time for me to text out my last will and testament.