It’s probably never wise to overreact or panic, yet I find those responses are all too often my default mode. If I took a little time to think about it, I’m sure I could come up with several dozen examples through the years where my initial answer to some unexpected circumstance was some minor form of hysteria. It’s not a healthy trait, and it does no good for blood pressure or cussing problems.
Why, just a week or two ago I sauntered out on a lazy Sunday afternoon to fill the water trough for the horses out behind the house. I flipped the handle on the hydrant up and, instead of the familiar sound of air and rushing water coming out the end of the 100-foot garden hose, my expectant ears were met with only the sound of silence. Since I was still kind of in Sabbath mode, I cussed, but under my breath, so as not to fully release my frustrations on the serenity of an otherwise lovely day. I trotted up to the end of the brand-new hose in hopes that my sight would reveal what my hearing would not. No luck. Not even a hint of a drop of water. My first thought was that maybe the electricity had gone out, but a quick glance in the window of the house revealed the gentle shadows of the ceiling fan still caressing the walls of the living room. Well, obviously, the pump had gone out – or maybe if I was lucky, it was only the control box.
Unbelievable! I’d replaced both of them just a couple of years ago.
I could feel a trace of rage beginning to seethe just below the surface as I marched toward the edge of the yard where the pump is located. As I made my way to the hydrant, my toe caught a corner of the hose – yes, a corner.
“Hey,” I thought to myself, “hoses don’t usually have corners.”
They don’t, unless of course there is a kink in the hose. I reached down and, with a simple flick of the wrist, heroically escaped the quandary.
As evidenced by my encounter with the hose, I sometimes tend to overshoot the mark. Just a few weeks prior, I’d had another encounter with the overreaction bug. I’d been away from home for a couple of days, so upon my return, I took a little drive around the place to make sure all the beasts were in their proper places and the creeks were still in their channels, so to speak. As I drove by a hayfield, I noticed the red four-wheeler sitting in the middle of the field not far from the pivot point. I figured my dad had run it out of gas, so I finished my farm tour and stopped off at my folks’ place to inquire. My father informed me that the machine had abruptly quit as he bounced across a pivot track. He’d tried to start it, but there wasn’t the slightest spark or click in the motor.
The next day we trundled down into the field with a trailer and loaded the lifeless machine up and hauled it the 35 miles to the shop where they are all too familiar with me. It was a busy time for them, so of course, it’d be about a week before they could get to it. They said they’d call when they got it done. Ten days went by with no word from the shop. Finally, Grandpa called them to hopefully prod them along.
Now, I’m not sure why they didn’t call because, despite the $70 charge, it couldn’t have taken them long to fix the problem. The problem, you see, was that the little red kill switch on the handlebar was switched to the “off” position. Oddly enough, that very switch needs to be in the “on” position for the machine to run. Grandpa’s hand must have bumped the switch as he bounced through the field. Since I only ever use the key on the opposite handlebar, the thought never occurred to me to check the bright red kill switch on the other side. It’s a weak defense, but it’s my only defense. I’m fairly certain I’m a favored customer at that particular ATV repair shop. I think it’s called easy money.
There are indeed reactions outside of overreaction that seem to serve me better, though it’s sometimes tough to remember those other options in the heat of the moment. My twin sister, along with her daughter and son-in-law, loaded up their horses and made the two-and-a-half-hour drive from eastern Idaho to help put the cows on the mountain this summer. The possibility of a little train wreck is ever-present when you’re moving a herd of mamas and babies. Sure enough, about an hour or so into the adventure, a half-dozen calves made a jailbreak and escaped, on the run, headed back to where they came from. Stopping a bunch of running calves is like pushing water back into the faucet. You can maybe outrun them, but it’s a mighty task to turn them around.
In the middle of the chase, my sister was barking orders at her daughter, who was none too willing to take the advice. As I loped past the mother-daughter duo, I heard my niece unleash an expletive-laced retort to her mother – something about encouraging her to calm the heck down – but in slightly more colorful and profane terms. Since I’d never heard the girl utter even a hint of a cuss word before, I was kind of taken aback. For me, it was the perfect tonic for the sour moment. I couldn’t keep myself from laughing out loud. It immediately lightened the moment and the load. The realization came to me that this current little wreck was nothing that couldn’t be remedied. I’d been through the same scenario dozens of times before, and it always worked out in the end. And besides, it gave me a chance to rope something. That’s always a plus.
I don’t know if my new-found serenity will last, but for now, I’ll “chill the heck out” and enjoy the ride.
