Fixodent, the Sleet Lady, & Ivan Prokopchuk

While walking my dog along the shoulder of a busy road Saturday morning, I saw a mini-van in a deep ditch, parallel parked, its doors kissing the ravine, its windows caked with dry mud—a telltale sign that it had been there overnight. Don’t ask me why, but I thought I’d get a little closer, investigate, checkout the damage.

Then I saw movement inside and had to get involved. So I extended the dog leash while lowering myself down the embankment. I tapped on the driver’s side window. “Are you okay in there?” The driver, an elderly woman (probably in her early 70’s, I’m not good with ages) lifted her head from the steering wheel and managed to crack the door. “You okay?” I asked.

I had difficulty understanding her because her dentures kept popping out of her mouth and she kept pushing them back in with each slurred syllable. I think she said something about a “tow truck” and “waiting.” Later, my wife, who is infinitely smarter when it comes to science, explained that alcohol dissolves Fixodent.

Anyway, as I climbed out of the muck, a vehicle pulled over and two women got out and approached me. I told them about the lady trapped inside, that I didn’t have a cell phone. They volunteered to make the necessary phone calls. Realizing that I had done my part as the first responder, I dismissed myself from the situation.

As I continued on my walk, I could hear sirens in the distance and knew that everything was under control.

Today’s photograph is titled: “Harry Wentworth’s Stockcar, Owendale Speedway – 1975.” His son (leaning on the car) was the gun-toting kid in my flash memoir “The Trigger Man & His Accomplice” at Sleet Magazine. I’m the kid standing next to him. Speaking of Sleet Magazine, the Sleet Lady is back with a brand new Spring Issue coming up (click here ).

Lastly (but most important), Canadian Writer Ivan Prokopchuk checked himself into a hospital a few days ago. Hopefully he’ll be feeling better soon. Send your regards here .

A DANGEROUS JOB

My neighbor power washes his uniform and equipment. I’ve seen him by the side of his house. I asked him, “How often do you need to do that?”

“After most fires,” he answered. He went on to explain how his employer couldn’t afford to clean his gear. “I hit it with the hose,” he said, “as often as possible. Knock off the asbestos and whatever hazardous building materials are on it.”

***

I had my roof re-shingled this summer. My wife paid before the job was finished. The roofers had promised to paint the fireplace chimney to match our new shingles. I said to my wife, “How do you know they’ll return to finish the job?”

“They’re Detroit Firemen,” she answered.

We waited for approximately two months … but with good reason: The roofers were busy with hospital visits. Their coworker and fellow side-job man, a 31 year old fireman, suffered paralysis from the waist down when a building collapsed on him. He hadn’t entered the burning storefront; it simply fell on him as he stood on the sidewalk.

***

The fireplace chimney did get painted. I pulled into my driveway and saw one fireman standing on the roof spray-painting the metal flashing. He waved and I waved back. His ladder blocked my garage door and I thought about moving it so I could hitch my boat to my car. I only had a few good hours of fishing before darkness arrived. I decided it wouldn’t hurt for me to wait. A few minutes later he climbed down and said, “You’re all set.” I thanked him.

***

My neighbor gave me an update on his coworker’s status. He said they were raising money to help his family. “It’s the little things,” he said, “like the loss of income from his side-jobs, or who will cut his grass or shovel his snow.”

I agreed. I bought a tee-shirt. It’s the least I could do.