Carma’s Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

It’s no question; Nathan Hendricks’ world is rallying between consciousness and unconsciousness. His conscious world is filled with uncertainty, and the unconscious world holds the unknown. But his familiar world of bull-riding tumbles to an abrupt halt when Nathan lands with snapping in his ears. Little does he know, his fall from Gangucha is just the beginning to the world spiraling out of control. Will Nathan adapt to the uncertainty or succumb to the unknown?

Three Seconds
He shifted his eyes to the side and saw three pair of cowboy boots running towards him.
****
Nathan’s eyes pop open; yellow-tinted darkness surrounds him. His eyes dart from one side of the room to the other; he sees nothing but shadowed objects and dim fluorescent lights filtering through the curtained doorway. The room smells of lemon toilet bowl cleaner and spearmint mouthwash; his stomach churns. He doesn’t know if the pit of nausea is from the sickening smell or the dull ache in his head. A rhythmic beep interrupts every few seconds. He closes his eyes, struggling against the whirlwind in his stomach.
“Hendricks looks solid riding the well of Gangucha. Gangucha is on fire today, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, Hendricks is struggling a bit…and he’s over the well!” The words echo through Nathan’s head, and Gangucha’s fiery eyes flash across his mind. He opens his eyes again to find the same dusk-lit room, the incessant beeping, and the sterile smell. He moans; he isn’t in pain, but a wave of fear suddenly embraces him.
“Can anyone hear me?” Nathan calls. His throat is raspy, and he finds that it takes all his strength to utter a whisper. A few minutes pass; Nathan neither hears nor sees anyone. The storm in his stomach rumbles. “Is anyone around?” The curtain rustles and puddles of bright light land on the bed.
“Nathan, did you call?” Squeaky footsteps follow before a short, petite nurse flips on the light above the bed. Nathan squints; the light burns his eyes. “Do you need something?”
“Yeah, I think I’m going to be sick,” Nathan says. “I can’t seem to get up or turn to my side. Can you please help me?” He now feels the full fury released within him; he silently prays for a few extra minutes, not so much for himself, but more for the nurse.
“I’m sorry, Nathan; I can’t help you do either,” the nurse replies.
“How am I supposed to…?” Nathan feels the tide quickly rising, and the tidal wave crashes to shore within a second. The nurse grabs a few towels and a tube that screeches with suction. She sticks the tube in his mouth and holds it there while the storm unleashes its power. After a few minutes, the waves subside; the nurse removes the tube and wipes up the overflow.
“Do you feel better now?”
“A little. What day is it? What time is it?”
“It’s about 2 o’clock in the afternoon on Tuesday,” the nurse says as she shoves the dirty towels into a plastic bag. “I believe your parents stepped out a few minutes to get something to eat at the cafeteria. They should be back shortly.”
“How long have they been here?”
“They haven’t left your bedside since you came in on Saturday.” The nurse washes her hands and picks up the plastic bag. “Is there anything else I can get you? Would you like the TV on for some noise? Do you want me to turn off your light?”
“No, I’m fine, I think.”
“All right, give a holler if you need anything.” She quickly slips through the curtain and disappears into the world beyond the bed rails and doorway. Nathan stares up at the ceiling tiles; his thoughts clash together, making reality a jumbled mess. He silently prays for some small symbol, anything to bring his world into a focus. He moves his eyes to the left, and there he sees it draped over the bed rail, the red handkerchief. A tear slips out of the corner of his eye; he remembers part of the story now.

Carma’s Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

In last week’s column, Nathan was in and out of consciousness; the extent of his injury has not been determined. When Nathan once again succumbs to the darkness of unconsciousness, the narrative begins telling of Nathan’s impending date with Gangucha, the greatest feared bull. Will Nathan’s training and experience aid him in his fight against Gangucha, or will Gangucha’s fight give Nathan something else to fight for? Cowboy up!

Three Seconds

He closed his eyes, released his hold on the chute, and tried to envision the ride.

****
A grinding noise suddenly pulls Nate from the world of darkness; he isn’t so sure whether the noise or the pain awakens him. A surge of excitement rushes through his body; he has pain. This is the first pain he has had since…he can’t recall the last time he had pain. He looks up, but sees nothing but a glaring light; he tries to look to the side, but his head doesn’t turn. “What is making that racket?” Nate wonders.

All of a sudden a shadowed, blurry figure stands above him blocking the penetrating glight. “Oh, Nathan, I didn’t realize you were awake. I’ll have one of the nurses get you something for pain.” As quickly as the figure appeared, he disappeared into the unknown surroundings. Nate lay quietly in silence; he feels numb, except for the excruciating pounding in his head. “Where am I again? What happened? Why do I have such a headache? Where is everyone?"

“While you are awake, Nate, I want to explain what I am doing,” the blurry figure said. “I’m putting a halo around your head and screwing in pins to keep the halo from moving. The halo is meant to keep you immobilized while your fracture heals.” Nate closes his eyes; he hears the words; he understands the words, but the effects of the words are not comprehended. He reopens his eyes and sees another dark figure standing by the first one; the second dark figure makes a few quick movements, and it isn’t long before Nate realizes his world is once again fading into blackness.

****
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, next up is Nathan Hendricks on Gangucha Fury,” the announcer said over the PA system. Nathan opened his eyes and took a deep breath; he pushed down his hat and gave a quick nod to the cowboy waiting to open the gate. Nate heard a slight creak in the gate, and in a second he was out in the ring. Gangucha jerked left, then right, then up, and then down; Nathan tightened his legs and squeezed his hand around the bull-rope. The beast twisted, turned, jumped, and bucked; every jolting movement jarred Nathan’s body, and he realized he wasn’t going to conquer Gangucha.

The bull-rope began slipping through Nathan’s fingers; he curled his fingers tighter, but in that instance, Gangucha lurched up and landed on his front haunches. Nathan felt the rope rip from his hands and his body launching through the air. The crowd was silent and a blur; Nathan saw everything around him in fast-forward, but he was moving in slow-motion. “Land well and run like hell” echoed through his head; there was no doubt that he was going to run! He landed with a loud snap in his ears; he tried to raise his head, but a stabbing pain pierced through his head.

Everything around him went into a tailspin. He closed his eyes, praying for extra strength to run. But strength didn’t come; movement didn’t come; he was stuck helpless in the middle of the ring. The pain intensified and throbbed down his neck. “What in the world is wrong with me?” he thought. He shifted his eyes to the side and saw three pair of cowboy boots running towards him.

Carma's Corner: Three Seconds (continued)

In the last column, I started telling a story, the story of Nathan Hendricks. Nathan is a young man who grew up watching the rodeo and cheering on his dad. But now at 17, Nathan is pursuing his passion of riding the bulls. It’s his passion that has brought him to face the legendary bull, Gangucha Fury. Let the showdown begin…

Three Seconds

“I’ll be at the fence. See you after the fall of Gangucha!”

****
The bright lights slowly dim to perpetual darkness; the craziness and noise fade into a soft murmur; the poking, prodding, and pain diminish in intensity, and the essence of life feels like a game of jeopardy. Nathan’s senses dissolve into nothingness. Questions are fired at him: “Nathan, can you feel this? Do you have any allergies? How tall are you? What exactly do you feel now?” He knows the answers, but he isn’t able to give them.
“Keep him immobilized,” the doctor commands. “We don’t know the extent of the damage, but we can’t risk moving him for x-ray either.” The nurse gently tugs the sheet up to his shoulders; he notices that he can’t feel the sheet, but only sees it through a blurry haze. Everything suddenly goes silent, and the darkness overwhelms him.

****
Nate grabbed his chaps, vest, gloves, and extra pair of cowboy boots from the pick-up truck. He strapped on his chaps that bore the red and black design of his dad’s ranch brand, HH. His dad gave him these chaps for his sixteenth birthday; it was his first pair that was custom made for him. When Nate first started riding, he always used his dad’s old chaps, but now with his own chaps, he truly felt he belonged to the sport. He slipped the protective vest over his arms and fastened it tight. The vest was so heavy; he often wondered whether the vest did more harm than good. “How in the world can I be balanced if I am so top heavy?” Nate thought to himself. He jerked on his boots, pulled on his gloves, and topped off his costume with his black cowboy hat.
Nate started walking toward the bucking chute when he realized he forgot to put something on. He raced back to the truck and snatched up the red handkerchief lying on the front seat; he tied it around his neck. He never rode without the handkerchief around his neck. His mom had given him the handkerchief. She said, “You wear this every time you ride. Just think of it as me giving you a hug every time you fall.” His mom never came to the rodeo; it wasn’t that she didn’t support him; it wasn’t that she didn’t have time; it was that she just couldn’t bear to watch her son get defeated by an animal. He had showed her all the protective gear; he had the stats to prove that he was good; he told her, “I had the best teacher, mom. Don’t you trust dad?” But nothing he did or said convinced her to come, so he carefully donned the handkerchief each time.
Nate arrived at the bucking chute to find a very ill-tempered Gangucha. “So you are the lucky one who gets to ride the devil,” one of the cowboys said.
“I’ll consider myself lucky once my ride is over!”
“Smart kid. I’ll tell you something…don’t try to do any showboating out there. Just land well and then run like hell.”
“You don’t have to tell me that I need to run!”
“All right, Hendricks, you’re up,” a rodeo hand called. Nate grabbed the top panel of the chute and climbed up; he looked down at Gangucha. The bull was restless, kicking his hoofs every which way. The rodeo hands did their best to calm the bull enough to allow Nate to straddle him. After a few minutes of angry chaos, a ranch hand shouted, “Get on now!”
Nate carefully and quickly lowered himself onto Gangucha’s flank; he pulled the bull-rope and began wrapping it around his hand. It was less than a second before Gangucha’s body shifted up and down and sideways. Nate grasped the side of the chute trying to steady himself. “What in the world am I doing?” he thought.
“Are you sure you want to do this, boy?” a cowboy said from the other side of the chute. Nate looked down and yanked the bull-rope tighter; he was going to do this; Gangucha was just another bull. He closed his eyes, released his hold on the chute, and tried to envision the ride.

(To be continued…)

Carma's Corner: Three Seconds

It’s no secret. I love words. I like stringing words together and rearranging them to create stories where the characters’ fate is solely dependent on my imagination and use of words. For the next few columns, I have decided to take a little detour from the usual “Carma’s Corner” and share one of my creative narratives. The following narrative is one of my favorites, and I hope it’s as enjoyable to read as it was to write. The story and characters are fictitious and merely a product of the imagination.

Three Seconds

Bright overhead lights shine down; people in uniform bustle around the elevated bed; needles are shoved into available veins; neck is placed in a brace and strapped to the bed; whispers are heard outside the curtained doorway; alarms and buzzers sound together in a coarse rhythmic tune. Commotion, noise, and physical pain fill this world, a world that will become all too familiar to Nathan Hendricks.

“Fracture in neck…extent of damage unknown…future uncertain…” These words echo and fade in Nathan’s head as he rallies between reality and the world of the unknown. The world of the unknown is silent, painless, and dark, but this serenity is occasionally dissolved into the chaos of reality, a life where Nathan would have to fight only to survive.

Fight has always been part of Nathan’s life; it isn’t that he struggled with delinquency; it isn’t that he didn’t get along with others, and it isn’t that trouble always found him. The truth is Nathan diligently searched for the greatest fight, the fight of a dirt snorting, hoof pounding bull. The larger, the angrier, and the wilder the beast, the more Nathan loved it. But did his passion drive him to hold on a few seconds too long, one too many times, or will his passion precisely be the antidote in his impending fight for life?

****
“All right, Nate, your score is sitting in the 60s” dad said. “Do you think you can give us another strong ride?”

“I will, dad, I will,” Nathan said. It was a bright, brisk October Saturday, a day where the wind nipped at the skin, the sun gave enough heat to bring sweat to the brow, and the air tenaciously held on to the lingering smells of summer. Nathan loved these fall days; he lived for these days. It wasn’t so much that he liked the season of fall as it always marked the beginning of classes, homework, and countless activities associated with school. But fall also brought the rodeo, and that was what Nathan lived for.

He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he wasn’t part of the rodeo. He recalled countless Saturdays clinging to the fence and stretching as far as he could just to peek over the top panel to watch dad “play with the bull.” At four years old, he didn’t understand much about the rodeo, but he knew most Saturdays was dad’s play date with the bulls. Nathan was a bubbling teapot on rodeo days; he would get up, pull on his jeans, yank on his favorite black and red flannel shirt, and tug on his black cowboy boots before the sun even roused from its slumber. Saturdays was their day, a day filled with popcorn, soda pop, riding ponies, laughing at the clowns, and most importantly cheering for dad.

Standing in his jeans, red flannel shirt, and black boots, Nathan could still see that excited little boy, hear his shrieks of joy, and feel his endless energy. But at seventeen the excitement, joy, and energy rush no longer came from being a part of the rodeo; the high resulted from being in the rodeo. Dad willingly took on the role of watching from the fence line when he had properly handed over his skills for playing with the bulls to Nate.

“You ready for this,” dad said, slapping Nate on the shoulder. “Gangucha is an arm jerker. Other riders are saying he’s in bad temper today.” Gangucha Fury had a noteworthy history, one that all riders liked to talk about, but few dared to endure. Most riders would swear that gGangucha was primarily the devil, while others confessed that devil was too tame of a word. Gangucha looked like one of hell’s angels with his wild eyes, burnt red coat, and yellowed horns that appeared to be glazed with the venom of death. If the sight of him wasn’t frightening enough, his size of 1700 pounds was sure to bring any rider to his knees, whether it was in prayer or absolute terror.

Nate sighed as he peered into the bull pen; his date with destiny was standing off in the far corner of the pen. Gangucha stood quietly; he wasn’t being disturbed, but Nate knew this tranquil nature was only momentary.

“Yeah, I’m ready; he’s just one more bull to ride. Gangucha hasn’t met Nathan Hendricks yet!” Nate stepped away from the fence. “I better get ready; I ride in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be at the fence. See you after the fall of Gangucha!”

(To be continued…)

Carma's Corner:For the Love of...

It’s no secret; baseball season is in full swing! Crowds clamor to a stadium to watch their favorite team in a game that has been most commonly tagged as “America’s Favorite Pastime.” Amidst the ballpark hot dogs, cracker jacks, and ice cold drinks, fans heartily cheer, laugh, and support their team. For nine innings, life is about the next crack of the bat, home run, or amazing play; life takes a seventh inning stretch, often a welcome reprieve from the daily stresses.

When I was young, I couldn’t wait for the ninth inning. For me, the ninth inning meant there were only six strikes standing between me and a favorite TV show. My dad liked baseball; he liked the Minnesota Twins, but he would watch any game. At that time, I didn’t find baseball to be on my “top ten list of TV watching”. I found three hours to be a long time to sit and watch a ball being thrown back and forth. Oftentimes, dad would spare me the boredom by occasionally checking the score and then switching the channel to my program. For this graciousness, I was thankful.

As the years went by, baseball mysteriously didn’t seem as boring or as long. But then I realized baseball hadn’t changed… I did. With my dad’s help, I recognized strikes, balls, pop-ups, sacrifice bunts, and even designated hitters. Baseball was suddenly more than just throwing a ball back and forth; it was a game of strategy and talent. With my growing understanding of the game, dad and I enjoyed many games on television and even a few at the Metrodome. The Twins were “our team” and not the Yankees. It was certain…dad had successfully passed on the love of the game to his little girl.

Dad has been gone nearly three years now. But I still continue to faithfully watch “our team”… and, of course, not the Yankees. I’ll admit I don’t know all the rules of baseball; I don’t understand all the technical lingo, but dad taught me enough to genuinely enjoy the game. So I watch… for the love of the game… and for the love of my dad.

Carma’s Corner: From Jeans to Propriety and Back

As the heavy wooden door creaks open, the year 2010 spins and vanishes before me, leaving me in an ornate, detailed foyer. I sit quietly under the intricately painted vaulted ceiling—year 1883. Suddenly, my jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers feel out of place; I realize for the moment I no longer belong to 2010—aside from my modern day attire. But I have become a guest of the McHenry Mansion in Modesto, California.

The mansion was constructed in 1883 by Robert McHenry, a prominent local banker and rancher. He and his wife, Matilda, resided in the mansion from 1883 to 1896. In 1896, Robert and Matilda’s only child, Oramil McHenry, moved in and lived there until 1906. After the McHenry era, the mansion was converted into apartment housing in 1923. It remained apartment housing until 1976 when the Julio R. Gallo Foundation purchased it and donated it to the City of Modesto for restoration and community use.

The first stop on the tour is a small, narrow room most commonly known as the “calling room.” Elegant straight chairs line the edge of the room; drapes that fall to the floor cover the windows, and a tiny, silent fireplace sets against the far wall. If a guest arrived to visit the McHenrys, the guest would be escorted into the calling room, given a “calling card”, and instructed to wait to see if the McHenrys were seeing guests. The average visitation time was a half hour. I look at the chairs and can’t help but wonder, “What if someone had traveled a great distance only to find that the McHenrys were not accepting guests that day.” I realize those chairs have stories, if only they could talk.

After the “calling room,” it’s onward to the formal parlor, living quarters, and then the library. Since the mansion was constructed during the Victorian Age, each room is furnished and decorated with items appropriate to the time period. The formal parlor is filled with fancy furniture, exquisite paintings, and even oil cloths resting on the arms of each chair. Apparently, Mrs. McHenry provided these doilies to her male guests to place behind their heads so the hair oils wouldn’t stain the back of the chair. I smile while thinking, “I wonder what Mrs. McHenry would say upon seeing me with my sneakers on in her formal parlor.”

The next stop is the living quarters. I quickly scan the room for something comforting, but I find nothing. The room appears very similar to the formal parlor; all the furniture looks as though if someone sits down… his/her legs should be crossed. My eyes drift to the piano, the only comforting and fun aspect of the room. In place of television and technology, the McHenrys found entertainment in the piano. It wasn’t uncommon for the couple to host dances within their home. I glance at the piano keys and strain to hear the distant chords of music and laughter. I hear nothing. But I know those keys could still play the music that the McHenrys enjoyed in 1883.

It isn’t until the library that I find my love. The room is sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a reading table, and a desk. But my eyes are immediately drawn to the book shelves along the wall. The shelves hold the greatest of Charles Dickens and all the other well-known British authors. I realize then these books connect 2010 to 1883; I read and study these narratives just as the McHenrys had.

Other highlights of the tour include a fine dining room (large enough to seat 20 people), a small, well-stocked kitchen (only person to see the kitchen was the Chinese cook), two bathrooms with provisional indoor plumbing (a rarity in that time period), and two bedrooms complete with double beds (people were smaller in that time). The basement and fourth floor are not open for viewing, but these floors were used as servant quarters.

As the front door swings open once again, the bustle of 2010 greets me. My jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers no longer feel out of the ordinary. The door gently closes behind me, closing the world of proper etiquette, sophistication, and propriety. But for a few brief moments, year 2010 and year 1883 converge together—through a young lady wearing jeans… surely the propriety of her day.

O What to Write of March’s Plight

“Ah, March! We know thou art kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, and, out of sight, art nursing April’s violets.” --Helen Hunt Jackson

I will admit that I have struggled with gathering my thoughts to write this column. It’s not that I had a lack of ideas; it’s not that I couldn’t formulate the ideas into written word, but I coveted originality.

Oh, I could write how March is deemed as the month observance of the American Red Cross or Woman’s History. But these topics would confine me to history, statistics, and possibly one example story. I then researched the special days of March—March 1 being National Pig Day to March 31 being Tater Day. Then, I had the all familiar suggestions of St. Patrick’s Day, Spring, the lion and lamb, and the ides of March. I had ready responses for each topic thrown at me.

“I’m not Irish. What would I write about green beer, shamrocks, and pots of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

“The calendar may say Spring, but the dirty snow piles say otherwise.”

“I really don’t understand the whole lion and lamb connection with March. Why doesn’t May come in like a goat and go out like a horse?”

“Ah, yes… the ides of March. William Shakespeare wrote, ‘Beware of the ides of March.’ I’ll beware of the ides once I know what it is!”

The month of March was clearly mocking me… as well as my blank computer screen. It then occurred to me that my struggling was somewhat representative of March. March is a month of the unknown or of transition. It doesn’t know whether it wants to be Spring one day and Winter the next.

March holds an element of uncertainty. The vast majority of people don’t like uncertainty. I’m no different. I like my days planned, my assignments before me, and especially my writing outlined. But is uncertainty really that bad? The word does possess negative connotation. It gives a sense of being not in control, a feeling abhorred by society.

Uncertainty allows for the unexpected. How would life be different if every detail of a day would be known before it happened? Would life be as exciting? Would the same emotions be experienced? I would venture to guess the overwhelming emotion felt would be fear—not of the unknown, but the known.

March can be ugly. March can be threatening. March can be uncertain. But without experiencing March, the April violets can’t be relished. In times of life’s uncertainty, hold on to the promise of April violets.