Adventures with Geannii

  Good Grief It’s a Bow Uncle Ronnie gave Dad a bow set — bow, quiver, arm guard, the whole works. Dad was so proud you’d think he’d been knighted. He took that bow out and showed everyone. If the mailman had lingered too long, he’d have seen it too. Uncle Ronnie was serious about bow hunting. It was his passion. (He was later accidently killed while hunting — the thing he loved most besides his family.) That bow set wasn’t just sporting equipment. It was a piece of him. Then one day… it was gone. Not the guns. Not the ammo. Not the jewelry. Just the bow set.  Dad always believed someone in the family had taken it, he was heartbroken.  He looked like someone had stolen his dog, his truck, and his last slice of pie all at once. Fast-forward to my senior year. I took an Arts and Crafts class — which was a mistake, because we were pouring ceramics and our greenware kept cracking like we were running a pottery graveyard. I knew exactly why: we left it in the mold overnight. B...

   One Wild Ride We had a twin-sized air bed on the top bunk—over six feet from the bunk to the floor. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until the cell phone started ringing. Naturally, it was on the top bunk. Up the ladder I went, but just as I reached the top, Van turned a corner. Now, we weren’t pulling a trailer, which meant the ride was already "bobtail" rough. (Which is trucker-speak for 'bouncing like a pogo stick' because there's no trailer weight to smooth things out). We were also on a very rough gravel road, hitting every rut and bump at about 35 miles per hour. I was instantly off-balance—one hand, one foot, the rest of me swinging out into space like a confused circus monkey trying to cling to the ladder. I managed to scramble onto the bunk for safety, or so I thought. The airbed didn't offer safety; it offered a launchpad. The bed turned into a trampoline. I wasn’t just bouncing; I was a rag doll in a carnival game. I hit the ceiling, then...

    Most people think 80,000 pounds of steel and rubber can handle anything. They’re wrong. On an Oregon mountain pass in February, physics doesn't care about your cargo—it only cares about who’s in charge. And on this day, it definitely wasn't us. I have a fear of driving — or even riding — on icy roads. I didn’t always feel this way. When I was first married, DH was driving a propane tank. He was bootlegging… me. We crested over a hill — a 20 % grade — and at the bottom was a railroad track. The cross arms were down, lights flashing, warning of a train. The road was solid ice . We were in low gear, but eighty thousand pounds of propane and truck don’t care about low gear. Gravity grabbed us by the ankles and yanked us straight down that hill.

  Clothes were scattered along I-5 for miles. At first, it was just a single shirt lying in the shoulder. Then a pair of jeans. Then a sock — just one, because of course it was. You’ve seen it on television: clothes flying out of an upstairs window when a man is in big trouble. But this wasn’t TV. This was real life, and somebody’s laundry was telling a story. I could picture it perfectly. Huge fight.