the objects

and what I wish I could have said

March 28, 1977

He writes almost a year after my car accident and says he wishes he could have been with me, but he couldn’t, “… however I have to live with that, nobody else.”

— Am I nobody? I had to live with it too.

He writes he received my last letter and, “… wanted to respond but was in turmoil between courts and all of those other legal hassles, etc.”

— But I wasn’t important enough for you to pick up the phone?

He writes, “You should be adjusting just fine by now and the saying goes – it gets worse before it gets better.”

— Adjusting fine? I have to wear a leg brace to middle school and use crutches to get around to seven different classes. They shaved my long hair off because of the injuries and it’s growing in like down on a chick. I am wearing braces on my crooked teeth. I’m a hot mess. If it’s going to get worse than this, I don’t want to know what’s next. Thanks for the advice.

But he sends all his love.

— Why is it not enough for me?

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At first, I kept the letter as a substitute for him. I knew he had touched the paper, had put a pen in his hand, and put the words on the pages.

Now, I keep the letter because it’s a reminder we’re all human, perfectly imperfect.

Today, I know he loved me in the only way he knew how. And that IS enough.

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Coal River Road

“Was it a blue car or a green car? Because if it was a blue car, I’ll know this is a bad dream. If it’s a green car, then this-is-real-you-need-to-tell-me-now-and-tell-me-the-truth-please-was-it-green-or-was-it-blue?”

The paramedic wouldn’t speak, but the tears in his eyes confirmed the car was green.

I slip into a dream and watch the scene in third person. There’s a bent body of a small child, her mangled bicycle, a gift from her father, nearby. The green car sits at the end of a length of black skid marks. Its doors are closed, the driver, a man, grasps the wheel. The passenger, his wife, is frozen.

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In the hospital, the room seems dark. I wake because I hear the adults say what’s about to happen and I am powerless to stop it.

The doctor leans over my elevated leg, his face toward mine. He has a piece of equipment in his hands and he positions it right below my knee. I beg him to stop. I fight to rise up but there are so many hands pressing me down. His face scrunches from the effort as he pushes with both hands, elbows out, a metal pin through my tibia. I black out mid scream.

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I spent that summer in bed recovering from a traumatic head injury, a broken left clavicle, and a broken right femur. Attached to the pin in my leg are ropes slung through a pulley type device attached to the end of my bed. At the end of those ropes are free swinging, disc shaped weights—traction to allow the largest bone in my body room for proper healing.

When it was eventually time to transition from traction to a full body cast, they removed the pin. This time under full anesthesia. I do not know how I ended up with it, or with Mom’s visitor’s badge from the day of the collision.

A few years later, I dedicated a section in my scrapbook to this event, with those items taped to a page. There used to be a photo I can’t find right now, but I committed the scene to memory. It’s of me in the full body cast on a gurney, outside in the sunshine. I am propped up on my elbows and smiling because my friend Tammy is beside me. A friend who was there when I needed a friend most.

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One of my favorite friends in high school wrapped yarn on the underside of her boyfriend’s class ring so it would fit her finger. Another threaded a chain through and wore it around her neck. 

In 1980, wearing class rings was still popular in high school, whether it was your own, or someone else’s, in some symbolic rehearsal for married life.

I brought home the order form to Grandmother and gushed about my choice. I would not get my birthstone, like everyone else. Instead, I longed for October’s Rose zircon set in a delicate gold band. In Grandmother’s jewelry box were many rings with these types of stones. We shared a fondness for pink and amethyst colors.

Grandmother was hesitant, and I went to bed that night hoping for a yes in the morning.

On my way out the door for school the next day, I found an envelope with cash and the completed order form that also included a check mark beside the upgrade for engraved initials. I skipped to the bus stop and didn’t care who saw me.

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The ring has been off and on my fingers for 42 years and it mostly resides in my jewelry box. The 19 and the 82 are worn down and the school name is barely recognizable. If you look closely, you can still see BLN engraved inside and if you look at it in profile, the ghost of a perfect circle.

Years later, I learned how Grandmother afforded the purchase—she had used her “pin money.”

I don’t remember if I ever properly thanked her.

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The story that explains pin money: The Plastic Daisy Keychain

Our barn

Santa brought me a horse a few months after I turned 9 years old, in 1972.

Up to then, I had Dolly, a Shetland pony and my best friend of five years. But I had physically outgrown her compact frame.

Dolly had saved me from being trampled once. I had fallen in the riding ring in the path of a herd of horses loose for exercise, running full speed. Dolly stopped and stood in front of my prone body while the others went around.

One time, Dolly broke into the feed room and gorged on sweet grain. We walked her for hours during the night to help rid her of colic. After the danger had passed, I stayed in her stall and woke at first light with her head on my lap.

We had horse shows, trail rides, parades, and overnight camp outs together. She listened to every problem, complaint, or worry I had or imagined without judgment. 

What would my old friend think about this recent development?

The previous summer, we kept a show pony for a friend out of town. I rode her for exercise one day in full view of Dolly who was in the fenced pasture nearby. A little while later, the phone calls start. Dolly is spotted running down the middle of Coal River Road, away from home. She had crawled under the bottom wire of the electric fence and had made it a mile before being detained. It was several days before she forgave me.

How would she react to this new fancy horse?

And that’s where his name originated. Granddad had a professional sign made for Fancy’s stall door and it hung there for years until they sold the barn. 

My fear of Dolly’s negative reaction to Fancy being part of our lives was unfounded. They became inseparable friends, which eased the guilt I felt when I left in 1981.

Like Dolly some years before, I ran away from home.

It was the night of my 18th birthday and there was a power struggle, one which I “won” by showing my grandparents how mature and grown-up I was. By running away.

Fancy entered my life when I outgrew early childhood. He stayed behind when I made my abrupt escape into adulthood.

But he had Dolly, and she had him.

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