Well, once again we have that day many folks dread. Some are probably watching more closely for black cats that might be contemplating crossing their paths and staying away from ladders and mirrors. Actually 13 has usually been a lucky number for me. Consider the fact that my parents were married exactly 13 months and 13 days when I was born.
There was one Friday the 13th which was quite grizzly for me, however. It was 13 August 2004 and Rhonda and I were moving the remainder of our belongings from our mountain-top chalet in Northeast Georgia, which we were selling, to our permanent home here in Tennessee. We decided that there was only about one truck load left since most of our belongings had been moved in May, so we rented a U-Haul and loaded them ourselves. Big mistake. The truck was packed to the limit and I was attempting to load a lawnmower that we simply didn’t have room for. The truck was high above a rock walkway and the long ramp extended its full length was between me and the walk. Teetered on the edge, I lost my footing and tumbled downward, striking my head on metal and my back thudding on the rock. Then here came the lawnmower, crushing my chest. I was crying bloody murder, and Rhonda rushed me to the ER where it took two strong doses of morphine to give me any temporary relief. But it wasn’t really Friday the 13th that caused that unfortunate mishap. Right? Have a safe day, and ‘don’t take any wooden nickels.’