From the Slow Lane: Got a pulse? Then shuddup, why don’tcha?
Here we are, for the eighth winter in a row, surrounded by a couple hundred other snowbird RVers — mostly retired military people living in motor homes — waiting out the winter parked in a campground that’s actually just a big field on a Navy base in Key West.
We get through the months talking about three things: latest health issues, the weather “back home” and what we’re going to eat at our next meal.
One of my favorite people here is a snowbird from Kentucky and she has this to say to anyone who complains about aches or ailments: “Ya’ll got a pulse? Ya’ll havin’ to wear a winter jacket? Then shuddup!” I like to hang around with her, just to hear her talk.
Camp for old kids!
I never went to sleep-away summer camp when I was a kid but I suspect that this place is a lot like it. We don’t have counselors, instead we have “hosts” who make sure we’re in the right places at the right times for meetings, water aerobics, card games, arts and crafts and RV repair 101 classes. There’s no “lights out” curfew but there is quiet time from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. and if you get caught riding a bike without a helmet, the military police will give you a ticket. (You do get “sir”-ed and “ma’am”-ed to death while they are writing the ticket but it’s still going to cost you $25.)
Last Saturday we were invited for drinks at a neighboring RV. We placed our chairs in a big circle and told stories and jokes. Boys were on one side, girls on the other, just like a half century ago. The only difference between then and now is that we had to keep asking “what?”
Well, maybe that wasn’t the only difference but it’s the one I need for this story. At one point, one of the “boys” placed an object under the chair of one of the “girls” then stepped away and pointed a remote in her direction. Nothing happened. He pointed again. Nothing.
Actually, something was happening, but when you try to get a laugh out of the embarrassing sounds coming from a remote-controlled whoopee cushion, it’s only going to work if the people in the immediate vicinity can actually hear the whoopee! But that made us laugh harder than if the joke had worked the way it was supposed to!
You think ticks are bad!
Conchs (Key West’s version of hareleggers) don’t have to deal with ticks but they do have big wooley spiders that can jump. I haven’t seen one of these spiders yet but I’ve heard about them and I know they’re here, waiting for me to let my guard down. Unfortunately, while I was watching for big wooley spiders, I got bit by tiny red ants, hard, and a lot. They’re also called fire ants. Fire would have felt good next to this pain, which, on the 10-point scale that tops out at labor pains, was right up there.
I had been riding my bike when I put my delicate, sandaled foot right into a nest of the nasty little … ants. I raced back to the RV as fast as I could pedal, my husband trying to keep up. I shouted back to him, “I’m in trouble here. If I go down, it’s because I was bitten by some fire ants!”
He said, “What?”
I yelled, “Fire ants!”
He said, “What?”
By this point, my entire leg was stinging and burning and going numb at the same time. And so were my hands. Going numb, I mean, but that might have been because I had a death grip on the handlebars.
When I got to the RV, I threw off my helmet and put my foot in a pan of cold water. It sizzled. And I was getting light-headed so I tried to sit with my head between my knees but, damn it, I can’t bend like that anymore!
Now my husband is beside me and I tell him I am about to pass out from a dozen fire ant bites. He gets me on the floor, puts my knees up and says, “I’m calling 911” and starts looking for the phone.
While he was looking, allow me to digress. A few weeks ago, someone shared the story of how he’d hurt his back while cleaning out his car and had crawled to the inside of the front door of his home. “I’ve hurt my back,” he told his wife, “I can’t move. Call 911.” She assessed the situation and tenderly placed a small pillow under his head. “Okay, honey,” she said reassuringly, then added, “I’ll call but first I’m gonna need about an hour,” before she raced off to make herself presentable for the emergency.
When I heard that story, I thought, “Is that crazy or what!” But then I had my own dire situation involving scores of killer ant bites, which I shall now continue.
Just when I was sure I would succumb to the hundreds of bites before he could call 911, I glanced at the floor-length mirror and saw what my hair looked like on account of that bike helmet!
“Don’t call anybody! Look at my hair! Get me a brush!” I said, and while I was trying to tame the mangled mess, he examined the bites — all three of them, which by then were feeling just a little better.
Long story short:
I lived, but I do watch where I step now. The three bites still itch something awful but when I start to complain, I say to myself: You’ve got a pulse. You’re not wearing a winter jacket. Ya’ll just shuddup!
