August '98
Volume 8.22
Rayanne 'Recks Hydroplanes Saturday A.M.   oafing on
the weekend is not something I am able to do. Often, I find there is not
enough time to do the things I really want to do. I suppose, if I arose at
first light there might be adequate time, but I doubt seriously if there
would be adequate physical stamina to enable me to endure all the tasks.
In the summer months, unless we are in the middle of a drought, the grass in Pontotoc must be mowed each Saturday, rain or shine. It is not a chore I can easily accomplish on Sunday, even if I did not have a moral aversion to cutting grass on Sunday, because I still attend services at First Baptist, and by or before 4:00 p.m., Barbara and I are preparing to drive back to the Delta. Every weekend, the car has to be washed sometime prior to our attending Church, and, from time to time, I do get a haircut in Ripley, MS, on Saturday morning, a chore that consumes nothing less than two and one-half hours. Add a trip to the supermarket and to the local mass merchandiser and much of the day is shot. Saturday, July 25, began as a typical Saturday morning. After crawling out of bed and stumbling into the kitchen to the smiling faces of Lillie Belle and Barbara, I hastened to the grass cutting chore. I used to wonder what the two women had to smile about so early in the morning, until I chanced to look at my hair in the mirror. It's not nearly as red as that of "Bozo the clown," but it is styled similarly. The morning air had the feel of a pending rain as I began to layout the front lawn in horizontal sweeps with the Lawnboy, diverging from the usual diagonal patterning. I had already finished the backyard and hoped to complete the front prior to any rainfall. I scarcely finished mowing when a gentle rain began to fall. Minutes later, I stood inside the front doorway of the house peering out the full-length, glassed storm door as the rain began to fall more intensely. A nice rain upon a freshly cut lawn beautifies it infinitely more than any effort on the part of man. The loose clippings are either pressed below the surface or else rinsed away to the storm drains. (...like we've storm drains in our neighborhood - ditches with culverts is more like it.) I stepped outside onto the walkway that lies beneath the eaves of the house and inspected the rain gutters. My niece, Felicia, and I had, weeks earlier, fitted them with new gutter guards to prevent leaves from clogging the system and allowing the run-off to spill over the top of the gutter rather than flow smoothly through the openings of the downspouts. The guards were performing their job and the discharge from the downspouts of the gutters attested to the fact. After admiring how the Lord had helped beautify my labors, I returned to the comfort inside the house and settled down to surfing the Internet. The perspiration that had bathed my body in moisture while I was cutting the grass had not entirely evaporated when, from my seated position at the computer, I reached to answer the ringing phone. "Daddy," I heard my daughter say, "I've had a wreck, but I am okay, and Merilese is okay." Before I had time to say much of anything Rayanne attempted to tell me where she was. "I am sitting in a Jeep using the car phone of one of the men who stopped to help me," she continued. "He said he could take me to the Endville Texaco, if I wanted you to meet me there. I hit some water on the highway. My car hydroplaned, spun around several times, and struck a bridge near Veterans Blvd. Now, I'm turned around and can't tell which direction I'm facing. I can't drive the car, it will have to be towed. Can you or mother come get us? I cannot get ahold of Anson." After what seemed like forever, I asked, for clarification regarding her physical well-being and her exact whereabouts. "I don't think I have anything broken, and no cuts, but my head is hurting. It's not real bad, it's more like a dull ache. Merelise was strapped in her car seat in the back seat, and she is fine. She was scared by the noise of the wreck, but she's smiling and playing with the man driving the Jeep. We were on our way to Trent's to have our pictures made. Can you call him and tell him we are not going to make the appointment?" Rayanne asked. I told her I would take care of that need, and since she needed me to come get her, I asked exactly where to meet her. She had some difficulty in making me understand that she was on the East side of Tupelo. I had become confused about the Endville Texaco, thinking it might be somewhere near Veterans Blvd. and not associating it with Endville, MS which is nowhere near the site of the wreck. With the aid of the motorists who stopped to help, she was eventually able to define her location in terms I could understand. "Coming from Fulton, I am at the last exit on Hwy. 78 before you get to the mall exit," she replied, and upon hearing that I knew exactly where she was. To Lillie Belle, I hurriedly explained what had transpired and left a message with the photographer's wife that Rayanne would be unable to make the appointment. Barbara had left the house about the time I finished cutting the grass and was having her hair cut by her local beautician. As I approached the beauty shop I saw a car pull onto the highway that looked like Barbara's Le Sabre. I attempted to flag-down the motorist, who not knowing me from "Adam," wisely disregarded my signals. When I spotted Barbara's car on the parking lot of the beauty shop I realized I had mistaken someone else for her. Bursting into the beauty shop wearing yard clothes, unshaven, and sporting a baseball cap to cover my unruly, early-morning hair, I may have startled as many women as startled me. Several were sitting around the room with their heads wet or else under a hair dryer, appearing equally less beautiful than I. Barbara was being attended by her stylist, Tammy. Immediately sensing something was amiss, Barbara asked the obvious, "What's wrong?" I compressed everything Rayanne had related to me into the sentence, "Rayanne has had a wreck near Tupelo, but she and the baby are fine except that Rayanne's head is hurting because she hit her head on the window or the door." The scissors of Barbara's stylist whacked a few more strands of hair as Barbara climbed out of the chair, and the stylist exclaimed, "I'm finished with the cutting." A trim was all Barbara had asked for, but I don't think it would have mattered if she had had to leave looking less than perfect. We were soon speeding toward Tupelo on Hwy. 9, a two-lane road that connects with Hwy. 78 at Sherman, MS. I did not run much faster than 70 mph while on the two-lane, but when I got to the 4-lane I cranked it up to 80 mph and sometimes 85 mph. With hazard lights flashing, I tried to inform motorists in front of me that I was in something of a hurry. I have seen enough unobservant drivers on the roads obstructing emergency vehicles that I did not expect everyone to take seriously my display of urgency. Most drivers were polite enough to yield the right of way, but one guy decided to out-run me and blocked my attempts to pass for about a mile, until he tired of driving at near 90 mph and pulled into the right lane, allowing me to get by. Though startled by the noise, I was not surprised when my car phone rang. It was Lillie Belle telling me that Rayanne had called and said to meet her at the fire station. It would have helped to know which fire station, but that information was not available. Had it not been for the anti-lock brakes on my Lumina, I could write that I slid to a stop at a gas station on Veterans Blvd. to ask where the nearest fire station was located. The clerk did not know, but directed me to ask the man who had just driven up and was walking into the building. "That's the Sheriff, he'll know," she stated. The Sheriff informed me there was a fire station about a mile farther down the road. He further stated it would probably be closed, since it was Saturday, but the downtown fire station would be open. Sure enough, the first station was closed, and we found Rayanne and Merilese at the downtown station, where Merilese was entertaining a couple of firemen. After loading up our car with belongings and our travelers, Barbara and I insisted upon Rayanne being checked for a possible head injury. We ended up having to go to the Emergency Room of North MS Medical Center, because the Family Care staff informed us if an x-ray or MRI were needed, it would have to be performed at the hospital. Luckily, the number of folks waiting in the Emergency Room was minimal. Rayanne was soon being examined by a physician. A short time later, Anson and other members of the Adams' family arrived to check on the safeness and soundness of Rayanne and Merilese. The hour's waiting passed quickly as children and adults interacted and discussed the happenings of the day and plans for the weekend. When Rayanne finally emerged from the examination, all were relieved to learn she had not suffered any severe trauma to her head. See, there is value in having hard-headedness in the gene pool. I wish I could report that all has gone well for Rayanne since her dismissal from the Emergency Room. However, it seems that though her body is healthy and sound, her emotions have been damaged. Children who learn to ride bicycles undergo many mishaps in the process of perfecting their balancing skills. Far beyond the learning stage, advanced cyclers must occasionally endure a spill or crash. There is no small amount of pain when it's your hide that has been scraped and bruised, and the admonishment of others that the best way to overcome your fear is to climb back onto the bike and go again is not always understood by the bruised and bloodied. Over the two weeks that have lapsed since the wreck, Rayanne has found herself driving on the roads, once again, under rainy conditions. She reports attacks of disabling anxiety, being fearful of driving at normal speeds. I suppose it is something akin to post-traumatic syndrome. I am confident she will soon put events behind her and slowly move back to near normal driving whenever the weather is rainy. It takes time for young persons to mature to the point they place great value upon their lives and the lives of others. Youth is often deaf to the cry of parents and their seniors to drive carefully. Experience is certainly not the only teacher life has to offer, but she is perhaps the best. Fortunate are those who live to describe their experience. Purpose Reaffirmed Leaving A Legacy This newsletter, Ridge Rider News, and it's Internet equivalent, Ridge Rider News Online, are employed as methods of describing and detailing the lives and times of this writer's personal interests, his family, and friends. RRN and RRN Online are viewed, by this writer, as no more than an accounting of these events. Whether or not they are viewed as such by others is of little concern to this writer. "Responsible journalism is journalism responsible in the last analysis to the editor's own conviction of what, whether interesting or only important, is in the public interest" (Walter Lippmann). To hold this newsletter accountable to the standards of journalism of professional publications is ludicrous. To believe this newsletter exists for the purpose of molding the opinion of others is to elevate the publisher's motive to unrealistic idealism. To expect this newsletter to express opinions less pointedly or less strongly is to deny the purpose of expressing opinions. Anyway, who would find a "milk toast" opinion interesting? This writer recognizes the right of every individual to have an opinion about anything and everything. (That includes even an opinion about this newsletter or its publisher.) While some persons are fearful of having their opinions criticized by others, and therefore keep silent their thoughts, this writer does not belong to such a group. It is important to note this writer does not seek the praise of peers to the aggrandizement of personal ego. Subscribers to this newsletter are beneficiaries of reading history in the making, albeit, a history of limited scope. Persons who find editorial comment in this newsletter critical or otherwise distasteful according to their standards are encouraged to first ask themselves if the material violates a personal conviction. If so, theirs is the right to disagree, a right cherished, coveted, and honored by this writer. Letters To The Editor is a recourse open to all readers. If opinions expressed by this writer are viewed by the reader as being too harsh or too judgmental, then the reader may elect to not read the offending portions or else exercise the ultimate form of censorship, discontinuance of his subscription. I have attempted to clarify the purpose of this newsletter in past writings. Let me state my purpose once again. Most of us are interested in knowing who we are and where our roots are. I have learned the answers to many of the "who am I, where did I come from" questions from my parents, grandparents, and other relatives. The bulk of that information was handed down in the oral tradition. It is my desire to provide, through this journal of thoughts and experiences, a window into which subsequent descendants may view the daily lives of their ancestors. If, through this window, my descendants gain a better understanding into who they are and from whence they came, I will have accomplished my purpose. Funny Signs Adapted From CA RRN The following quiz was originally a listing of humorous signs along with where each was found. These were published in a recent issue of Ridge Rider News of Shingletown, CA. I thought it might be more interesting for you if I separated the sign from the location. This way, you can test your matching skills. Select the letter describing a particular SIGN and write the letter in the blank provided between the number and the LOCATION. Answers will be provided next week. Good Luck!
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