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Old college buddies were coming to our mountain.
Now when I say old, I mean old. We
were all in our seventies and hadn't laid eyes on one another in over
50 years. Surely by now our faces and bodies
have had minds of their own, for according to yearly Christmas cards,
our lives had been like Snapdraggons. Parts of us had snapped and the rest was draggin'.
While spiffing
up both bathrooms, it seemed that after umpteen years both oak toilet
seats were looking mighty weary. No amount
of cleaning was going to heal a few cracks which, heaven forbid, could
give way leaving my enthroned darlins'
mired amongst splinter wreckage in toilet water. Mercy,
what an awful thought!
The newspaper advertised genuine oak
toilet seats on sale for the grand opening of our new super Wal-mart. At only $7.88
each, I chose two lovely looking commode toppers.
To my utter joy, the following morning
my husband, Ken, announced he had work scheduled in town. I all but shoved him out the door so I could
'plunge' into my project. The new oaken
settees were a perfect match for our log house. I
was excited over the prospect of demonstrating a happy homemaker
maintenance moment installed by myself, with
one left hand yet.
Toilet seats were the last thing on my
mind the day the unthinkable happened, a brutal accident in which I
lost my right arm. 'Twas
more like how I'd be able to perform anything left-handed in my
antiquity. The devastation and aftermath
launched me back in time to devour life's mundane chores. Inventing sedulous ways to put on a bra, butter
bread without it shredding, stirring brownies fearing the bowl
catapulting across the kitchen floor, artfully feeding myself in
public, haltering the critters, and folding clothes with my teeth. It was a brilliant start those first months
in-between a few woe is me tears.
Weeks passed and my precious old lefty
was being worked to the limit. It was nearly
time for my first prosthesis fitting. My
neighbor noted my left hand and wrist had swollen badly. I couldn't turn on the garden faucet or set the
sprinkler, simple things taken for granted. The
following day my doctor announced I was well into rheumatoid
arthritis. Well now, wasn't that just what I
longed to hear? My feminine 135 pounds would
be downing prednisone and a few other steroid types to turn my
carcass into a testosteronic bulging mass,
like the hunks down at the gym.
I muddled along learning to use a
prosthesis, a farm and ranch hook that every man in sight ran from
for some unknown reason. Finally, there
became very little I didn't teach myself to do. How
silly of me to have been such a pitiful wretch. I
had reinvented myself physically and yearned to be self-sufficient.
After gathering a dozen or so tools from
the garage, I got down on my old arthritic knees to ascertain what
size tool I needed to extricate rusty nuts. Not
even one of my carefully chosen tools fit. Back
to the garage for another handful of tools, and this time I hit the jack'pot.' Using a whatchamacallit
round-ended gadget, it only took 20 minutes to dislodge the first nut
off an endless six inch bolt. Nineteen years
had set that nut with Schwarzeneggerian
strength. After much 'grunting' and
'groaning,' I finally announced to the toilet, "I'll be
back," while retreating to the kitchen for a cappuccino.
I had designed my big bathroom with a
cute little niche for the commode, but overhead lighting left my work
area dim beneath that foreboding cold fixture. I
grabbed my reading glasses and our best flashlight, stood it on end
and was happily making progress, when the phone rang. I raised myself to my knees, and to my horror
discovered my prosthesis was submerged inside the porcelain
receptacle helping me hang on for dear life. Oh
my Gawd, how gross!
Since it was my afternoon to answer
office calls, it seemed apparent I should use a portable phone on
this job. I set it atop the tank for quick
access, and when it rang again, I lurched and fumbled. PLUNK, in it fell emitting a sorrowful brrgggggg . . . . brrggggg. I dove in with
my left hand, punched the orange light, answered, and with 'great
relief,' someone from the black lagoon answered back. 'Straining' to keep from laughing aloud seemed
par for the course in most of my prosthetic trials.
But, I 'took care of business' most efficiently, squinting
through drenched designer glasses, and taking notes on damp toilet
paper.
The main toilet seat was finished and it
was a splendid sight. Sir Thomas 'Crapper'
would have been proud of me. Having
conquered the tricks and journeyman skills of a specialized trade, I
changed the seat in the guest bath in jig time. The
entire project took two hours and ten minutes, and all Ken had to say
was, "See ya got the new seats
on," to which I disdainfully replied . . . . . "I'm
'pooped,' old man, so don't ask about dinner tonight."
And that's the way is was just a few
years ago. In order to appreciate Sir
Thomas' invention, everyone should replace a toilet seat or ball cock
at least once in their lives. That lovely
resounding and successful flush gives one such a feeling of 'relief'
and satisfaction.
Have toilet seats . . . will travel!
Story as it appeared in Split My Side magazine some years
ago.
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