At one point in the film I Robot, (loosely based on some of
sci-fi writer Isaac Asimov’s novels) Will Smith’s character says to the lady
scientist, “You’ve got to be the dumbest smart person I know.” Later in the
movie when he realizes what is going on (spoiler alert: it’s VICKY, the central
computer and not the evil-seeming company CEO) he repeats the line referring to
himself as “the most stupid smart person.”
I thought of those lines as the
nail on the index finger of my left hand, which had been turning varying shades
of purple finally fell off.
Snow
Flash back to
the aftermath of the last wet winter snow storm of 2013 as I pushed my snow
thrower along the driveway. I say “pushed” because it is undersized and only
likes dry, powdery snow. Purchased over a decade ago, when I was new to country
life, I had yet to learn the lesson that sometimes more is more. The wet snow,
heated by the friction of the blades, tends to refreeze in the ejector tube.
This is a real pain because my driveway is over 150 feet long and a car is the
only way to get anywhere other than the deli across the road. Though I keep a 5
foot piece of doweling handy it always ends up where I am not. I can’t carry it
as both hands are required to engage the spring-loaded plow drive and blade
motor controls.
I know that it is not safe to
put my hands into the maw of the machine when it is running, even with the
blades disengaged. There’s a warning label clearly stating the snow thrower
should be turned off before placing ones hands anywhere near the blades. And
yet, for 13 years, absent my dowel, I have poked my hand into the tube to push
the ice out without incident - - but not this time. As I push the ice my gloved
finger encounters the slowed, but still spinning blades. It is akin to smashing
your bare toe into an immoveable object: the pain physical, mental and
spiritual. Why did I do something so stupid?
Wasps
Another aspect
of country living are the flying insects that control the skies during the late
spring and summer months. Paper wasps are my bête noir. They are very territorial and their territory seems to
include all the areas around the outside of my house. You don’t have to
interfere with them, but only pass too close. Unlike bees that die after
stinging, the wasp remains alive and, if possible, more ornery. It continues to
sting (and encourages its comrades to join the party) chasing you until you
find shelter indoors. The pain of a single sting can last a week.
Their nest starts off as a single
cell attached to whatever surface the wasp-mind deems suitable by a seemingly
too-thin thread. Left undisturbed, it can grow to be the size of a football or
larger. If it reaches this size, with the attendant population of wasps, it becomes
impossible to get into or out of the house safely. So, when I saw a couple of
wasps hovering around the beginnings of a nest located in the doorway I knew
that immediate, decisive action was required.
Never mind the time-honored
adage advising against poking a stick into a wasp nest. This, after all, was
not really yet a nest. Grabbing a too-short, flimsy branch from a weeping
willow (more like a feather duster than a stick), my plan was to swat the
embryonic nest and leave the wasps to find another location. I approached the
doorway, reached out with my branch and sought gently, but quickly, to dislodge
the nest. Before the branch was within a foot of the nest, the wasps flew at me,
like the bulls at Pamploma. I turned as quickly as I could, slipped out of one
of my sandal, tripped on the other and went face-down onto the asphalt. I’d
lacerated my hands and knees and my head bounced as it hit. The scars on my
knees will be with me forever. I would rather have been stung. Have I become
the kind of person who believes they are not subject to the rules of mortal men?
Some
are more special than others
George Orwell had it right when
he wrote in Animal Farm that “some
are more equal than others.” We all think that rules and procedures are good
and benefit all, but that they don’t necessarily apply to ourselves. I’m
special, so I don’t need to follow the rules. I’m special so it can’t happen to
me. I’m special so I will live forever. I’m special so I don’t need to look
before cutting you off. I’m special so I can yak with the supermarket cashier
as the line behind grows ever longer. I’m special so I don’t have to read or
follow instructions. I’m special so I can argue with you about the driving
directions you have given me although I don’t have a clue myself. This last is a long-standing pet peeve.
As a child, I often found
myself hanging around the corner with my friends on hot summer days with
nothing particular to do. I must have appeared wise beyond my years because
drivers inevitably asked me for directions and inevitably they disagreed with me.
Was this because even though they thought me mature enough to give directions,
as adults they felt no compunction about contradicting me? They must have felt
special. In the face of this I would concede (after all, I was only seven or
eight years old) even while knowing their directions were incorrect. After a
while I started agreeing with them from the start, especially if they were
wrong. This small maliciousness will increase my time in purgatory, but it will
be worth it because I am special.
This belief is ingrained in us
from birth, growing, as we grow, from the “terrible twos” to its apex in the
latter teen years when we become special by virtue of knowing everything. While
this sense of specialness decreases as we age it never completely goes away. It
remains the one common faith among all peoples that: contrary to multiple
personal experiences and in the face of concrete evidence to the contrary we
are not bound by the rules of common sense.
Continuing to plow my driveway,
the same day I smashed my finger, the snow refroze and jammed the machine - -
again. The dowel was, of course, not nearby and without a second thought I moved
my hand toward the machine.
~~~~~~
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