Mom was about 53 when a young horse smashed her into the barn wall, blunt metal stirrup splitting her lower leg wide open.
"Can you drive to the ER, help me get in the car?"
They call them foals because it's almost the same as fool. Mom always had one of those fools at the house following around her trained competitive quarter horse. She got into dealing to support her own riding habit, churned out domesticated animals worthy of aspiring barrel racers without the knowledge or desire to train them.
Well that and because she loved it.
That's why she's...over 53, still trying to teach foals that it's acceptable to have a human on their back. Not to wig out. Not to smash the human into the barn.
Is it any wonder why I suffer an injury or few while pushing it, horsing around in middle age? This didn't come from my father. He was a pro athlete though. I suspect something about getting paid to be athletic squelches your desire to compete and push physically. Even so, it must be the Minick genes, in my case, the mothers heritage of having balls.
Let's see, where do I begin? Great-Legendary Uncle Bill Minick, the guy who had is eye gouged out while bull riding? Crazy Uncle Tom. Aunt "Tiz" Diane, who skid through a glass wall? Cousin Roger, recent parachuting and ski injury? There's more, and then cousin Tim. He was a paid pro athlete, so he doesn't overdo fitness. But he's not above the Minick gene. His mom is signing up for bungee jumping. I hear Tim's wife regularly complain about Advil overkill and constant wound seepage going on all over their couch and bed sheets.
That's why I will never tell mom, while driving her to the ER, to BINGO, or elsewhere, in as many years that follow, that 50, 60, 70 year-olds shouldn't be riding, competing, breakin fools. I will never suggest that some major part of her sit down and die before it's time.
And with that I'll view each of my unique hand crafted orthopedic injuries as a loving keepsake from mom.