Friends know what you need.
They have good ears, too.
Fifty miles away, two of my friends heard me talking to myself. For the umpteenth time, I was muttering, “I should have my butt kicked.”
I repeat: “Friends know what you need.”
That’s why I got a call from Tim Milner in Hartwell. Tim said, “Terry Floyd and I have made something that we think you could use.”
That was a decade ago, and their gift occupies a dedicated space in one of our barns. Over the years, guests have asked, “What’s that?” And I say, “Well, I need to show you how it works.”
Stepping on the plywood base and grabbing the handle, I ask, “Have you ever said to yourself, ‘I should have my butt kicked’?” Heads nod, and I pull the handle. Flying up from behind me, one of Terry’s repurposed fly-fishing boots gives me a thwack on my behind.
When the chuckles subside, I tell the story of Tim and Terry creating the butt-kicking machine for me. And I share some of the times that the boot has dusted my skinny butt. Here’s one that I’ll never forget:
The tailgates of today’s pickup trucks are multifunctional contraptions. Push this button, and it’ll do this. Pull that handle, and it’ll do that. And I need to add that these newfangled tailgates aren’t light.
Usually, I use both hands to lift and close my Sierra’s tailgate. Most times, except one time that I will never— and I underline never—do again. I had just unloaded two 50-pound bags of animal feed and a jumbo bag of floating catfish food from the back of my truck.
I was in a hurry.
First mistake.
With my left hand on the side body of the truck, I told myself, “I can still lift this hefty tailgate with one arm.”
And I did.
But rather than congratulate myself, I yelped, “Yeooooooow!”
The tip of my left pointer-finger was caught, smashed in the catch of the tailgate and the side body. Hearing my howls, Baby Llama Bean loped up to the fence and craned his head over for a better look. Twitching his banana ears, Bean seemed to say, “I can’t believe you just did that.”
Neither could I.
But that was just half of it. For either of the two release buttons to work, the tailgate must be completely closed. Guess what? It wasn’t. My finger was stuck in a place it should never have been.
Duh.
I knew there was only one way to solve the problem. And that solution was to use my right hand and shove the tailgate until it clicked. Yes, I did. With all my big-boy courage, I jammed it until I heard the magic sound. With a push of the bottom button, presto. The tailgate flopped down.
When I plopped on the tailgate to survey the damage, Bean jerked his head back over the fence. What he saw sent him scampering. He couldn’t wait to tell his pasture buddies what their dumb farmer had just done.
Oh, Sweet Jesus.
Every throb was a lightning bolt of pain.
As soon as I could stand up, I knew two things that I had to do. In a cloud of gravel-road dust, my truck roared toward the barn. Ice. I needed ice. Plunging my index finger into frigid water, I waited until my red finger turned blue.
And when I felt some relief, I walked over to Tim and Terry’s invention. With my good hand, I gave the rope’s handle several swift yanks.
Yes, I did.
If I ever needed my butt kicked, it was right then.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
