Author Archives: Jon Reed

Bones

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If you’ve never fractured a bone, you’re either lucky or should work on a more interesting life. Fracturing a bone is more than painful; it’s a frightful experience. My first occurred when I was 17 years-old, delivering a box of frozen deer-carcass chunks from my father to a friend in the neighborhood. Don’t ask. As I turned to leave the porch, I slipped on the icy steps, landing on my left elbow. I cradled my non-functioning, seriously hurting arm to my chest, thankful I hadn’t split my head open instead. Mind and body immediately knew the difference between a really bad sprain and a fracture, and neither the head nor heart was happy about it. 

“Dislocation fracture of left ulna,” read the report from Henry Ford Hospital in downtown Detroit. For those bereft a medical background, that’s a break in the long, elbow-to-wrist forearm bone closest to the body when, in this case, a bloody end doesn’t actually protrude from the body for all to see. A compound fracture would have broken bone fragments lacerate soft tissue and protrude through an open skin wound. Although, in my case, even with no bone sticking out, horrible thought, animal instinct told me I had been badly damaged. 

Yes, it hurt like hell. My arm was instantly numb and out of action, saying, “Don’t even think about touching me or I’ll make you pass out right where you are.” Worse, this fracture had occurred while delivering a box of frozen deer-carcass pieces, not heroically tripping while proceeding down a church aisle carrying a crucifix. The ignominy of it all. Thankfully, hospital reports don’t go into more detail. Think of it, “Dislocation fracture of left ulna while delivering frozen deer-carcass chunks.” 

A broken bone forces an owner to give up all personal preferences and responsibilities to any attending physician willing to see him or her as soon as possible. There’s no arguing with your damaged body. Whatever the doctor wants you to do, you do it; anything for relief. The first trick is to not pass out from shock and pain on the way to the hospital. Once they inhale a lungful of disinfectant aroma, some people, like me, feel queasy and pass out just entering an emergency room to visit the sick. So, in this case, I was in trouble. 

When it’s time to immobilize the limb, you’re usually doped up with so much magic juice you no longer care if the doctor walked down the hall carrying your broken part to show his associates. Various techniques are used. Long ago, a white building-material called plaster of Paris was used to coat the broken limb. The material was named after a gypsum deposit in Montmartre near Paris, France. Medical plaster of Paris is the same plaster used for coating walls and ceilings, but costs thousands more than redoing your kitchen. Mixing dry powder with water creates a gooey paste, and the hardening reaction liberates heat through crystallization. A cheese-cloth bandage impregnated with this stuff is wrapped around the damaged limb and quickly dries into a close-fitting orthopedic cast. The problem is, plaster casts become so hot while solidifying they feel like the doctor has poured lighter fluid in and thrown a match on top. 

Fortunately, Fiberglas epoxy casts have replaced plaster to immobilize broken parts, unless you find yourself in Burkina Faso’s backcountry. Epoxy casts are wrapped around the offending limb just like plaster casts, after the magic juice has taken full effect, hopefully. Just before the process of applying an epoxy cast begins, and you’re doped enough so you don’t know if you’re right-side up or not, someone playfully asks what color you want to live with for several weeks; pink, blue, orange, or green. Such colors are supposed to be cute but, really, who gives a damn except the youngest of children? 

A second fracture occurred in my mid-twenties while finishing off a well-made martini at my parent’s house over the holidays. I reentered a living room filled with relatives and attempted a Charlie Chaplin-ish pirouette, for some reason long forgotten. But Charlie did it better. I tripped, landing in a heap on the floor, fracturing a bone in my right foot. It somehow took the bloom off the occasion. A quick x-ray revealed a mild, non-dislocating fracture that didn’t require a cast but lots of explanations for several weeks. Should I have explained I simply tripped and broke my foot, or admitted to a martini-influenced attempt at a fool-hardy pirouette for which I had no training? The former, by all means. 

A third fracture, this time a right wrist, occurred in my mid-thirties, towing our two small children on a sled across a frozen pond. Is there a pattern here? I was wearing snowmobile boots and couldn’t feel how slippery the pond’s surface was as I tried to spin the sled to give them a thrill ride. An out-of-control flop to the ice broke the wrist, requiring two different casts; the first positioning the wrist upward for two weeks to semi-knit together, and the second bending the wrist down for three more, altogether an even-less-than-fun experience. It seemed I would never be shed of casts. Of course, it was necessary to hand-write a dozen work-related reports the following week, a surprising and unexpected opportunity learning to write left-handed for a while. 

My fourth and hopefully last fracture happened years later in my mid-fifties, slipping on an ice-covered wooden deck leaving for work on a dark and wintery morning. This one occurred too fast to exclaim, “Oh no, not again!” Another inelegant pratfall (are any unexpected falls elegant) broke my left forearm, leaving the arm hanging at a painfully unnatural angle. Ulna or radial bone made no difference, it still hurt. Fortunately, this one was attended to by a doctor who had never seen me before, so he couldn’t exclaim, “Oh no, not you again!” With the new Fiberglass-epoxy casts, nobody could write stupid sayings on it, including myself. 

But my timing wasn’t great. Our daughter had broken her knee in a Canadian skiing accident a week before and couldn’t drive because of her leg cast. I was elected to drive her back and forth to work for several weeks, until she knitted herself together. I suppose we would have made quite a sight if we had been stopped by the police for an infraction; a driver piloting a car with a left arm in a cast accompanied by a passenger-daughter hitched to one side with her right leg in a cast. On the other hand, if we’d been in an accident, at least our limbs were already in casts and protected.

Hunter

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While attending college in Flint, a friend, Dale, asked if I would like to go rabbit hunting the following Saturday on his father’s farm. Weather was promising and I was looking forward to just enjoying a day outdoors tramping around on a Saturday in fresh air and sunlight. I hadn’t brought a .22 squirrel-hunting rifle to college, knowing I wouldn’t have time, so Dale agreed to loan me an old rifle of his. 

Another student, Mike, heard about our plans and invited himself along. He had returned to college after a stint in the Air Force and delighted in reminding us of his military experience. It wasn’t clear whether he was ever more than a supply clerk, but he had a habit of imparting his world-wisdom whether asked or not. Mike assured us no one had more experience hunting small game as himself, and that he had been a great marksman in the Air Force.  Up to that point, I hadn’t been aware the U.S. Air Force spent any time hunting rabbits. Saturday would be interesting.

 Dale and I and another friend drove out to the farm Saturday morning and began unloading guns, coats, lunch bags, boots, and gloves. It was early November, a cool sunny day. A fresh breeze rattled a vast field of broken cornstalks that hadn’t been plowed under. Our outerwear consisted of jeans, worn coats, and orange hats, anything to keep warm and safe. I was glad to be out of my rented room and didn’t care if I saw a rabbit or even shot at one.

 We were ready to go when we saw a car in the distance. It was Mike. He pulled behind on the narrow dirt road and got out, resplendent in a brand-new hunting outfit. It was as if he’d stepped from the pages of an L.L. Bean catalogue in a new orange shooting jacket with the wrinkles still in it. The jacket would have been great on an African safari, with all its epaulets, cartridge loops, extra pockets, and leather elbow patches. His heavy green-camouflaged hunting pants had never seen a thicket or mud bog. His new boots were luxurious supple-leather, and his yellow non-glare hunting sunglasses were amazing. 

He greeted us, smiling broadly, unloading and assembling a brand-new Beretta over-under double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun, sliding new soft leather gloves over checkered grips. The engraved receiver gleamed softly in the morning light, and he began inserting shotgun shells out of a box into the loops of a tooled-leather cartridge belt. When all the loops were filled, he resembled a cleaned-up version of Pancho Villa without a sombrero. 

The three of us, wearing old clothes and carrying .22 rifles, were agog. Whether Mike’s outfit would impress the rabbits, I didn’t know, but we certainly were. But this wasn’t Vietnam and rabbits weren’t going to return fire. He didn’t have a single item indicating he was an old hand at hunting, whereas our old clothes and .22 rifles were more suited for an early morning cornfield. It didn’t help that he took pains to remind us yet again how much hunting he had done, as he was haphazardly handling the Beretta, allowing its barrel to swing past us dangerously. I quickly barked a warning and told him to be more careful, which wasn’t accepted very well. But I was determined to enjoy the day despite his presence. He chose this moment to order me, in no uncertain terms, to walk in back of him instead of in line with everyone else. Exactly why he wanted this wasn’t clear, but he insisted on having a clear field of fire in front. He said he wanted to know absolutely where I was at all times, in the interests of safety as he put it, even though I would have a loaded .22 rifle to the rear. 

 Of course, from a safety standpoint, it made no sense at all to hunt in anything but a single line, so I unloaded the .22 and left it, wondering again if he knew what he was doing. Dale’s quizzical expression confirmed my misgivings but, being safety conscious, I decided to continue behind the group. For the next half-hour, not a single rabbit popped up, but Mike had a great time shouting directions and generally acting the leader. 

Returning to the cars for soup and coffee, we were walking down a dirt track. I was still twenty feet to the rear as I had been for the last hour when a solitary rabbit suddenly ran from behind. It had only scooted a few yards in front when it suddenly reversed course and ran straight back at Mike. Suddenly, wildly, Mike began drawing a close-range bead while the rabbit was only yards in front. Mike swung the shotgun toward the ground, the poor rabbit skittering past and back toward me. In a split second, lacking any field sense at all, fingers tightening on the triggers, Mike continued swinging the shotgun in an arc past Dale and toward me. 

In the heat of the moment, out of control, he had forgotten everything he ever knew about firearms and field safety. I dropped flat to the ground, and he yelled “I got it!” firing both barrels over me while I was lying on the ground. Both loads of twelve-gauge pellets missed the terrified rabbit, ricocheted off the hard dirt track, and into the front of a wood-framed farmhouse only a hundred yards away, the rabbit long gone. 

I picked myself up, shaking, completely hollow inside, Mike’s crestfallen, guilty expression and sagging Beretta slowly revealing all. If he had ever hunted before, it wasn’t apparent. Besides endangering all of us, he had almost taken my life instead of a rabbit’s.  We left him standing there and drove home in silence. Whether he ever went back to the farmhouse to own up for the damage, we never learned, but Genesee County’s rabbits were safe for another day.

 

Jury Duty

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 “Jury Summons Notice: You have been selected to serve as a Juror. Failure to report will be considered a criminal offense. Please report on your assigned date.” Receiving a jury notice from a federal court is an occasion for mixed feelings. I was never sure whether my first experience was typical, but it certainly was entertaining. I appeared at Michigan’s 3rd Judicial Circuit Court serving Wayne County and, by mid-morning, seven of us were sworn in to hear a civil suit. Since we weren’t allowed to take notes, we would need to recapture what happened afterward and agree to every detail of several days of testimony, no easy task. Plaintiff was a man in his late thirties suing Coca Cola and a truck driver for running a stop sign and smashing into his car. He hadn’t been injured at the time but, now, seven years later, was claiming his neck hurt and he was suffering from despondency as a result. He seemed listless, sitting with downcast eyes and pitiful expression.

Just as we were beginning to feel sorry for him, the defense revealed Mr. Despondent had since played several seasons of professional European football in the United Kingdom. Uh, oh. I could only wonder whether his neck hurt from soccer or he was despondent over a bad season. How can a professional soccer player complain of a sore neck from a seven-year-old automobile accident? But Coca-Cola’s attorneys didn’t have a compelling argument why their truck driver shouldn’t be held liable.

We were led to a jury room to begin deliberating, and a fellow-juror turned to me and said, “We’ve decided to elect you foreman, so tell us what to do.”

No one had said how a foreman was to get a jury to reach a consensus, so I pondered a minute. “All right, but the first thing we should do is to agree about what we heard. What I heard was the truck driver went through a stop sign and smashed the plaintiff’s car. Although he went to a hospital for examination, he wasn’t injured enough to prevent playing professional European football. Now his neck aches, and he’s despondent. Sorry, but I’m despondent even being here. But the defense didn’t give us a reason why they are not liable for the accident, right?

Since no one heard anything different, we voted on slips of paper and decided to find for Mr. Despondent’s seven-year-old bumps and bruises and his smashed car. But now we needed to decide what that meant. “We have to consider the cost of plaintiff’s car and hospital examination and, after that, his pain and suffering. My problem is I think this guy is faking his disabilities. If you agree, let’s cover his out of pocket costs and get him out of here. Maybe he’ll have a better soccer season next year if he plays for another team. Each of us should write a dollar number on a slip of paper so we can see what the maximum and minimum are we think he should receive.”

The least amount was $10,000, the most $2,000,000.  I went over the actual costs and took another poll before we decided $40,000 was an amount everyone could agree with. We trooped back into the courtroom and the judge thanked us for having decided appropriately. We later discovered Michigan law allows plaintiff’s attorneys up to 47% of awarded damages. I could only hope Mr. Despondent had enough money to buy a few soccer balls and a happier outlook on life. At least we saved Coca Cola two million dollars.

We returned to the waiting room and were called back to a courtroom to hear a criminal case. A young, tough-looking, black defendant in prison garb was charged with shooting a jewelry store owner after robbing him. He huddled with a court-appointed attorney while the charges were read and prospective jurors called to the jury box. Each was asked whether they could make a fair and impartial judgment after hearing the testimony. The defendant’s attorney asked one prospective juror whether she could remain unbiased if someone testified the defendant was seen in the vicinity of the crime. She was dismissed for having potential bias. Apparently, to prove his point, the attorney then asked the next potential juror, “On the basis the defendant is presumed innocent until proven guilty, could you remain unbiased even if testimony revealed he emerged from the jewelry store with a smoking gun in his hand?”

Before the startled juror could reply, a man seated with me in the rear of the courtroom mumbled in a voice loud enough that carried all the way to the judge’s bench, “Hell No.” The entire courtroom was deathly silent; everyone turning to stare at our suddenly-mute juror ranks.

The defense attorney turned to the judge, “Your Honor, I want the prospective juror who said that to identify himself and be removed from the courtroom.”

The judge commanded, “Whoever said that, please stand up.” After a moment of shuffling feet and embarrassment, a guy meekly rose to his feet.  “Prospective juror, you are excused.  Please return to the Juror’s Room on the first floor.” There was a sigh of relief that a moment of unpleasantness had passed and business resumed.

However, the man who had actually spoken the words was still seated beside me and we smiled at each other in mutual understanding. Seconds later, he was sworn in without difficulty. After the panel was filled, the rest of us were excused and I returned to the jury room. In this case, perhaps, sleeping dogs should be left alone.

Lucy

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I was raking leaves from our oak trees into the street, and it occurred to me I should be burying them in the garden where they would become rich humus the following spring. The farthest corner of the garden, where the fences intersect, seemed the best place to start. When the first hole was three feet deep, the sand became cool and compacted. With a last shovelful, something at the bottom scraped. Whatever it was, it was solid and thoroughly imbedded.  I lowered myself into the hole and dug around until the end of a strange object became visible. It was tan-white in color and very hard, the end of a very large ugly bone. I jumped out, startled and un-nerved, landing in the leaf pile. 

What was a huge bone doing, buried in my garden? Could it be human? Was there a person actually buried in my garden? Thoughts of English who-done-its and bodies buried in gardens wouldn’t be silent. I remembered Jimmy Stewart thinking he saw a neighbor disposing of a wife’s body in a garden in the movie Rear Window. What would Agatha Christie, Sam Spade, or Charlie Chan do about this? If I called our city police department, they’d probably just laugh it off. Is there such a thing as a Missing Persons Department? 

I went back to the house for a glass of lemonade and a long think. A neighbor across the street, Mark, was a police officer. Perhaps he would know what to do. My wife returned and I began explaining the mysterious find. She was less than sympathetic. “Serves you right. You shouldn’t be digging that deep, anyway.” So much for spousal support. 

I crossed the street and found Mark finishing lunch. There was no way to avoid blurting, “Mark, there might be a dead body in my backyard. I was burying leaves in my garden and found what looks like a bone. Want to come over and take a look? I’m not sure what I have, and I don’t want to mess around with a potential crime scene.” 

Mark assumed his dead-pan, officer-of-the-law face and, for a moment, I questioned the sanity of telling him I might have a dead body in my garden. Then he fixed his official cop-eyes on me and asked, “So, whattaya burying leaves in your garden for?” Not quite the reaction I expected. Apparently more interested in leaves than dead people, he continued, “All right, let me finish this sandwich and I’ll come over. You want a cookie? How about a turkey sandwich?” 

“Um, no. I was burying leaves ‘cause they’ll compost over the winter, since our garden is mostly sand. I thought burying leaves would help make better soil. So … I’ll see you in a little while.” I went back to the garden to ponder where this was going. 

Mark ambled over a half-hour later with his nine-year-old son. I thought he’d be in a uniform for the occasion but he was still in shorts and flip-flops. “Nice day, huh?” Peering into the hole, he asked, “So, whattaya got in here? He sounded like a garage mechanic inspecting a faulty transmission while the owner stands around clueless. After a minute, he said, “Well, I don’t know what it is, but it sure isn’t human. Nick, what do you think?” Maybe he was training his son to join a criminal investigation team, or he thought Nick might become an expert on mysterious large bones, but the kid inspected the hole as requested. 

“I don’t know, dad. Can I help dig?” This was like the Tom Sawyer story where he tries convincing his friends to whitewash a picket fence so he wouldn’t have to do the work himself. 

“Nah, Nick. Let Mr. Reed keep diggin’. We’re playin’ ball this afternoon.” He paused. “You know, the University of Michigan finds lots of wooly mammoth bones around here. Why don’t you call ‘em and see if you got a dinosaur or something? That afternoon, I pulled out a large fossilized bone and a couple of baseball-sized vertebrae. 

I could hardly believe I was now an archeologist and might have a Stegosaurus in our garden. On Monday, I described my find to a real University archeologist but he said, “Fossilization means bones have become mineralized and won’t burn. If you hold a match under it and it doesn’t char, it’s a true fossil and we would be interested. But if it chars, it isn’t fossilized and we’re not interested.” After work, I lit a match under a piece and it began charring. My hopes fell. It would take thousands of years to fossilize and I didn’t think the University of Michigan would wait that long. 

My wife and I left for a two day vacation the next weekend to Indiana’s Amish country. I came across a large picture of a horse skeleton on the wall of a feed and hardware store, startled to recognize a few of the bones in my garden. So that was it; someone had buried a horse near the Rouge River in what became my garden, years before a subdivision had been created. Had Native Americans or some other ancient tribe buried my horse? 

The horse became Lucy, and the mystery of how it got there remains. Should I dig her up or leave it for a high school science-fair project? Nobody’s volunteered so far, because either they’ve read Tom Sawyer or there are no budding archeologists around these days. I’ve avoided digging too deep in the garden since then; one can never tell, I might find an old rider sitting on the back of Lucy the forgotten horse.

Climbing Mount Mitchell

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Our group of hikers decided to climb North Carolina’s Mount Mitchell, the tallest mountain east of the Rockies in a three-day adventure. Following was recorded as it happened.

Monday Oct 12 – Staters stayed overnight halfway to N.C. while Jerry picked up Reed at his house at 6:00 am (in the morning), and Nick and Rick arrived to drive together. Stopped in Kentucky for Liquor Barn’s two bottles of Gordon’s and expensive St. George’s, a “uniquely Californian gin with real terroir made from 12 botanicals redolent of California’s might Mount Tam, juniper, Douglas fir, Cal Bay Laurel, fennel, coastal sage, Orris root, angelica root, and other profoundly aromatic botanical ingredients all come together to create a forest in your glass.” Tasted like pine cones, echh! Arrived Black Mountain campground, Briar Bottom section, Dogwood campsite 6:30 pm in time to set tents and have a happy hour with martinis with real martini glasses. Jerry proudly hung GMI flag beside Stater MSU flag. Rick, Nick, and Doc grilled Costco steaks, baked spuds, baked beans, and special onion-garlic-mushroom compost. Rick produced Trader Joe Grand Reserve Yountville Cabernet Sauvignon. Campfire discussion regarding upcoming UM-MSU game. Harbaugh and Dantonio are intense, and we would be in tents, too. Overnight rain made midnight bathroom runs most difficult. Did everyone put the food away?

Tuesday Oct 13 – Awoke to clear dawn, and French toast with Cajun bacon (yum). Rick’s blue tub mysteriously missing but soon discovered. What could have happened? It was 25 yards away in the brush without Tupperware and two dozen ginger snaps (oh, the loss), one bag of caramel corn, a box of raisins, and a bottle of Maalox. Could only be an overnight black bear now satiated but constipated. Hmm. Decision? Place food in vehicles and keep very large knives next to sleeping bags from now on. Nick and Rick have cots (can you believe it) so they will never be bothered by bears. Jerry, Jon, and Pat decided to climb 6684 ft. Mount Mitchell and be picked up at the top. Pat hit forehead on low branch, receiving “stinger” neck and dead arms, before dropping water bottle over cliff. Pasties for lunch on the mountain. Finally summited Mount Mitchell, exhausted, to discover parking lot full of cars and curious visitors. Back at base, Nick flew Quadra-copter-don’t-call-it-a-drone from campsite launching pad with overhead videos of surrounding mountains. Totally unflappable Stanley the Southern campground-keeper, that no one could understand, stopped to say hello and was amazed at the sight. We think. Hot free showers, woo hoo. Grilled Salmon with strawberry, pineapple, orange, lime juice/zest salsa, and Cline Old Vintage Zin and Raymond Hill Chard. Midnight hoot owl screeching (maybe bobcat) but no bears TG. Held knives closer. Sometime overnight, insane ghost chipmunk invaded Jerry’s truck bed and began eating a favorite wool sweater. Pat discovered something had invaded his van’s arm-rest cubbyhole and made a nest of seat fabric and twigs. What IS it with these crazy animals?

Wednesday Oct 14 – French toast and bacon breakfast before Jerry and Reed tackled Green Knob, while Nick, Rick, John, and Pat tackled Biltmore estate and early wine tasting. Another cocktail hour by a real campfire (friggin’ firewood more expensive than ever) before dinner of Rogers City smoked pork chops, stewed tomatoes, quartered potatoes, and Plum Mkt Russian Valley MacMurray 2013 Pinot Noir with lots of appreciated John belching. Overnight temps in mid-40’s made midnight runs a challenge.

Thursday Oct 15 – Pancake and Cajun bacon breakfast, before Lower Toe River group hike. Pat relates, the “critter” that shredded Jerry’s sweater and ate various foods in van came back to Michigan. The little bugger ate an apple Tuesday night. After multiple times to let him out (window open and doors open all day and night twice), finally got him on stick’em mouse trap w/ seed mix; a field mouse, not a chippy-munk.” Thursday’s 5-year-old freeze-dried chicken and rice lunch wasn’t bad. Relaxing afternoon with showers and doctored-Cincinnati chili (mit bacon) dinner and Sangiovese wine. Packing up for early departure, had a flawless black night and Milky Way casting shadows. Fell asleep laughing insanely about the seven cuss words. No bears, TG.

Friday Oct 16 – Awoke to dark cold and wind. Broke camp and departed 6:15 am. (in da morning). Stopped in Kentucky for lunch and discovered Pat’s and John’s van sides covered with multiple bear paw prints from trying to get in overnight. Inspected inside of van and other vehicles for lurking bears before proceeding. Good weather all week and great time had by all.