There was a break in the usual winter weather; the snow cover was gone long enough to reveal the leaf litter and fallen tree branches which had been ignored in the fall. If only my husband would do something about it, I inwardly murmured. If only he hadn’t spent so much time hunting in October and November, the leaves would be picked up and the lawn made ready for winter’s snows. His disinterest in the way the yard looked added to my general gloom. “Something has to be done!” I became the nagging wife I had long vowed I would never be. “The yard has to be raked.”
Husband waved me off, heading upstairs for a nap instead. “Well, (I called after him, a slight attitude coming through here) I am going outside. Somebody needs to do it!” He replied, “Instead of that, just make me some cookies.”
Indeed. Cookies. There is work to be done and he wants me to make cookies? Harrumph. I put on my coat, grabbed a rake and went out to the yard.
The side yard was never officially graded and smoothed when the house was built. Rock outcroppings, large trees, and shrubbery thickets created an uneven landscape which gave it a charm surpassing the neatly manicured terrain of development housing. Charming it was, yes, but requiring manual, not machine labor to maintain. I raked, and fumed, and murmured some more when my foot went into a hidden-by-the-leaves depression as I took a step. Sharp pain followed the crack I heard. Oh. No.
Somehow managing to hobble back into the house, I started up the stairs on my hands and knees. “Umm, honey dear, we have a problem.”
A trip to the ER took care of my broken foot, his nap, my yard raking and any cookies I could have made. I looked forward to six weeks of plaster cast on my driving foot.
Meanwhile, the Rhode Island baby was in and out of the hospital. My helping trips were over for the duration. “As soon as I get out of the cast, I will be there.” Husband and son left for a college-visit trip, leaving me alone to do the stairs on my rump. Totally helpless to anyone now, the grip on my life line had become one of desperation. Joy comes in the morning. But what morning is that, Lord?