Jitterbugging for Jesus

In my first life as a newspaper scribe I covered a story–one so sad it made me weep–about a twenty-something Texas rancher who, like so many Texans, started riding horses when he was a tot.

One day he was enjoying a ride with his young wife-to-be when a perfectly gentle and tamed mare that had been his horse for years started rearing up and bucking violently. In the prime of his life, the cowboy was thrown off and landed on his head and died.

Unlike so many Western- and Southern-born-and-reared folks, I’ve never been much of a horseman. (My dad was an excellent horseman and a motorcycle rider in his prime of life, but I’ll save that story for Fathers Day.) Yet having grown up in farm-and-ranch country in a rural Texas county I’ve done my share of horseback riding for pleasure.

When I was in college a group of us boys camped out in the woods one weekend. A couple of friends brought their horses and we saddled them up and a couple of the guys were preparing breakfast.

I wandered over to the horses and on a whim decided to mount the one I was going to be riding on our leisure ride to trot around a minute. Since she and I were barely acquainted, the mare didn’t like me being on her without her master around. So I was barely in the saddle when she took off like a wild hyena circling around a big pasture. There was no reining her in.

My friends mounted their horses and tried to speed up to my rescue, but too late. Like I say, I’m no master horseman, but I was able to hang on until the horse pulled up to a dead stop at the edge of the woods and I went airborne.

Somehow I came out of that, uh, relaxing Saturday morning ride without a scratch, a broken bone or a head injury. In fact I was quite fortunate to have crash-landed on cushiony brush at the edge of the woods.

After guzzling a few cold, calming beers before breakfast (honestly, one of the few times in my life I ever drank before noon) my friends had a lot of laughs at my expense.

I had to laugh at myself, even though it wasn’t funny at the time of the unexpected ride.

I was so young that I don’t remember being sore from the body slam, though I’m sure I must have had tender muscles for a few days.

I say this because I made silly fun of my Monday motorcycle mishap in the last posting here. At my age, I was so sore from my motorcycle body slam that I had to amuse myself with that post to keep from crying. You don’t recover from painful accidents at 67 like you do when you’re 21, which I think was my age when the aforementioned horse threw me back in college.

Now I bring this up because people are always telling me, “Motorcycles are dangerous!”

To which I say: So is horseback riding. So are contact sports and, for that matter, girls softball. So is pulling out of your driveway in that sedan of yours that has the highest marks for driver safety a vehicle can have.

Before I moved to Belize–five years ago come July 15–American freeways started making me increasingly nervous. I don’t miss them.

Nowadays, being a congressman playing leisurely baseball with peers early on a weekday morning is a dangerous pursuit. I just caught that disturbing news and glad the victims will live to enjoy more time playing ball in the future.

* * *

I know, I know… motorcycle riding probably tempts fate more than most activities. And being an active person who lives for activity I’m perhaps tempting fate more than most.

I live in jungle country, for gosh sakes.

The feared fer de lance, AKA Tommy Goff or Yellowjaw snake, is common in BZ. Its aggressive and its fast-spreading venom seldom kills, but it can do a lot of permanent damage to a body in a lot of time. Nature is dangerous but we still seek outdoor leisure.

The bush is teeming with all kinds of dangers. When I’m in the jungle hiking or birding or just communing with that old Holy Ghost, I’m extremely mindful of these dreaded serpents the Belizeans call “Tommy Goff snakes.”

The Tommy Goff is actually known as the “Yellowjaw.” Though seldom fatal, its venom has a nasty way of promptly chewing up your muscles and tendons up and down your limbs and potentially leaving you severely disabled unless you get to a hospital pronto.

And getting to a hospital from out of the Belizean wilds comes with a lot of hurdles, especially if you’re staggering your way out of the wild from a “Tommy bite.” See more on Central American snakes here.

But hunters and fisherman and outdoorsmen of all kinds all over the world seek their leisures knowing the many dangers to watch out for. All kinds of dangerous things that go bump in the night are out there.

* * *

In spite of my making that goofy fun of my accidents yesterday, I’m thankful they were minor accidents–and thankful to people who were concerned about me.

I can assure you, I’m good. I’ve had a free, healing massage from a friend who insisted on paying me back for a favor I did her once and by the way, she’s a retired British physician socialist. I sought her ought for some free medical care and the rubdown.

I’m just saying this…

There are no guarantees of security and safety in a world teeming with potential danger. Lord knows I saw evidence of this a million times doing pastoral care in the emergency rooms and Intensive Care Units of hospitals.

I saw people who got maimed or killed doing all kinds of mindless stuff: riding motorcycles as if they were death-proof, for example.

I also saw an elderly retired man who was out fishing on a dock one day as he did routinely, die in ICU from a bizarre fishing accident. His wife was walking behind him and watched him get tripped by their faithful dog. The old gent fell into a few feet of water and promptly drowned. He never learned to swim.

That too made me weep.

Incidentally, he was a retired pastor.

I witnessed an enormous of sadness and grief in two careers that made me appreciate life to the fullest and go for the gusto.

It’s a wonderful world. But dangerous.

Be careful out there.