The e-mail stated if I didn't send the attached poem to 10 people within three hours, bad luck would be bestowed upon me. I'm not superstitious, but I did read the consequences it listed, just in case.
I can't say with certainty any of these mishaps took place because I didn't share the poem because, let's face it, I'm a tad bit accident prone.
It started after reminding the grandkids to be careful going down to the dock and then finding myself sliding down the grassy hill, hitting the dock with the shin of my leg, as four of my family members, who were on the dock fishing, watched in horror. It seemed to make matters worse when my sister, being the oldest and wisest, jinxed me when she said I shouldn't wear the slick shoes to go fishing and then had the right to say I told you so.
Not only did it tear up my leg, I broke several boards on the dock. When I came back to the house to report what I had broken on this trip out, you can bet I was doing some serious limping to help break the bad news. It didn’t really help.
Every year we get invaded by some kind of rodents or bugs. Last year it was the year of the beetles – flying ones with hard, black bodies and then of course the Japanese. Every year it’s a battle of the moles. Apparently they have divided up into teams. The beetles took flight above the grass, and the moles are tunneling through it. It makes for a very interesting and bumpy mow.
Even though the black bugs were hitting me in the head while mowing on the faster-than-the-speed-of-light machine and nearly doing wheelies when hitting the mole hills, I can’t complain. It’s as relaxing to me as having a day at the spa.
After a couple of left turns, I noticed it was getting very difficult to steer. I had a couple of long, straight stretches to mow, so I didn't worry about it until I had to turn again. After several rows, I waved at him as I noticed he was staring me down, as though something was wrong. He looked worried since it's never a good sign when I stop mowing, as it usually means I have run into, or over, something.
"I think it needs some power steering fluid," I said as I explained its reluctance to turn to the left. Apparently, mowers don't have power steering, but they do have a problem turning when a tire is flat. After driving on it for several minutes, it was past being flat. It was now in shreds.
We left the mower and went to till the garden. Two rows in, and the tiller broke. We left the tiller and went to look at the broken dock.
We sat on the sagging dock and fished, and decided my bad luck wasn’t because of a chain letter/email that I broke, and it really didn't matter, as we’re lucky in love.
Sandy Turner lives in Independence. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.