Well, Grams was scuffed up a bit, but I’m not entirely sure that Grams can be defined as a sentient being. Yes, she went for a bike ride. How she talked me into going along, I still can’t figure out, but somehow she did. I wore her camera backpack and sat on the handlebars with my feet firmly planted in the basket. She and Big Guy had decided to go all the way to the pier. The pier is about a mile to the east of where Grams works at the university.
Why did they want to go so far? Here’s the skinny: there’s a fire in the mountains to the northeast of Santa Tourista. This fire has been going on for about 3 weeks and the borate bombers are constantly taking off and landing at the Santa Tourista airport. The bombers are so loud that when they take off or land that it sounds as if they’re coming right through our wee casita. Big Guy will usually yell out, “Open the patio door! They’re coming through!”
Since the planes fly so low and so slow, Grams thought that she might be able to get a photo of the them as she stood by the pier. The airport runway goes right by there. To get to the pier wasn’t hard. It’s down a hill from the university. It was the getting back that looked like it might be hard. Meanwhile, the bombers never appeared; no ol’ 22, or 23, or even 25 the whole time we were there.
I have to admit that Grams did real good getting back up the hill. I bent my head back to smile at her and she did a fist-pump in the air. Couldn’t wipe that grin off her face. She had her iPod on and she started singing “I will survive.” It was great until we got past the Engineering building on campus. Grams forgot about the left turn. That’s where it all went pear-shaped. She tried a sharp left and went to the ground, knees first of course. I, however, flew from the handlebars into some very prickly bushes.
Grams couldn’t get up without help from big Guy. “I’m okay, I’m okay! And look I landed on my left knee this time,” she said. “And that’s okay?” asked Big Guy. “Yes, I got the right knee last time, so at least I’m alternating!” Now, you just can’t argue with that logic, can you? Once she was upright she came over to get me, “You okay, Gweeds?” I was brushing myself off, “I’m okay, lucky I was wearing your backpack ‘cause I landed on that.” “What!?!” She grabbed the pack and checked out the cameras. No, no don’t mind the Gweeds. I’ll just pull myself out of this bush with all the thorns. The cameras were fine, harrumph!
When we got home, I iced Grams’ knee while Big Guy watched for the bombers. He finally got a shot of ol’ 22, from the alley behind our place, as it was landing. That's right, we didn't need to go to the pier after all. Life goes on.
A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,
Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).
And, of course