By Sue Murphy
Poor Harold. Since he broke his arm, he had had to rely on my patchy expertise in way too many areas. It would try the patience of a saint.
I know what you’re saying. Didn’t Harold break his arm before? Yes, he did, and that made the poor man crazy. But this time it’s his right arm, which has added a host of other indignities.
We tackled the “I can’t drive” dilemma during the first go-round. It was tough, but Harold learned to steel himself against my driving quirks, most especially riding in the right lane (“This is the Clown Car Lane!”). After many silent and not-so-silent protests, he simply gave up in that arena and now sits stoically on the passenger side with a look of a long-suffering resignation.
Harold’s typing has always been hunt-and-peck, so computer work is still doable, but his left-handed penmanship is too wobbly for anything official, so he reluctantly turned over the check writing and checkbook balancing to his trusted second in command. I have proven myself worthy in this area, following his explicit instructions to the letter, and am happy to report that our finances are still A-OK.
Lawn maintenance has been problematic, but that’s to be expected because (a) I have never done it, and (b) I have a deep-seated (Seeded? Probably both.) aversion to machines. We have someone who routinely comes and cuts the grass, so I haven’t had to attempt to conquer the mower that has the potential to sever limbs while it self-propels, but this is the time of year when Harold likes to haul out his arsenal of trimmers and blowers and some gadgets that do both, but not simultaneously, although that would be helpful, I’m sure. Harold approaches spring with a vision of how he wants the yard to look, but this year he only has my spindly abilities to make his dream a reality.
I liken it to someone doing robotic surgery. Harold looks through his horticultural microscope and tries to position my hands and the clippers where he wants them to go, but my hands have a mind of their own, which routinely gets in the way. This is maddening for Harold but, trust me, I am doing my best.
My son-in-law was here for the great garden gate rewiring, but he had cleared the driveway when the cabinet door came off the hinges, so it was up to me to balance on the ladder while poking broken toothpicks into the screw apertures and turn the Phillip’s head in correct righty-tighty fashion. As of this writing, the door is still opening and closing effectively, so that’s OK, too.
Harold can still fire up the grill, but I must do the carrying and the flipping and the hoisting of the propane tanks. We’ve been able to tag-team stir fry, as long as I do the slicing and dicing, although if you ask Chef Harold, I slice when I should have diced and vice versa, but I think it still tastes just fine.
The only big fiasco came when I roasted a turkey breast. It came out beautiful, golden brown, but then I had to carve it – again, an activity I have never before attempted. Harold tried to talk me through it as he did with the checkbook, but when I got down to the skeleton, Harold just shook his head. “You might as well have taken an axe to it.”
I just want to say, I’m trying, Harold, I really am. Be patient with me and get better soon…for both of our sakes.
