Lucky accidents

Am finding the truth these days as I put on spiked treads to walk to the mailbox, use handrail going down the stairs, etc. Things never considered until getting into late seventies. Wrote the following in August 1984:

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With over 30 certified broken bones to my credit, this writer is no stranger to temporary impairment. Fractures, and other unwelcome dents in my carcass have always been an integral part of life. They profoundly affected my career ... often for the better.

It was a skull fracture, crushed chest and broken leg from a parachute jump which brought me back home to Kalispell in the ‘50s to sponge off the parents, but it got me out of “a dangerous world,” happily into radio announcing, and I found a wonderful wife.

One whole year with a shattered right arm trussed up in a steel traction-frame changed me from a ne’er-do-well third-grade marble shark and rabbit trapper into a studious bookworm. I can never thank the truck that hit me enough.

It was a matched pair of broken arches, which washed me out of gung-ho airborne and into cushy Army desk duty.

Sitting here tonight with an ice pack on my right elbow has afforded time and inspiration for contemplating all those “lucky breaks” with which I’ve been blessed.

Latest blessing began during June hike with Over the Hill Gang. We climbed Firebrand Pass and Bearhead Mountain, where my right arm had much work swinging an ice axe. Sore elbow got worse Sunday after 36 holes of golf. This included one “powerful stroke” which struck the sod a foot behind the ball.

Unless there is severe bleeding or bone extruding through the skin, I usually shave bucks off the doctor bill by doing my own diagnostics. After guessing “tennis elbow,” I went to Stoick Drug for an elastic joint bandage and forearm muscle splint. That helped a mite, but this last Sunday things went from awful to terrible.

Sure, I knew exposing my arm to strenuous strain could be risky, but knowing how badly my family needed fresh trout for the sustenance of their bodies, I volunteered to vigorously cast dry flies across the waters while son Shannon passed me an occasional can of painkiller and steered our raft down the North Fork River. Monday morning, had to shave with left hand.

Monday afternoon, Doc Gould said I should use ice packs, take pills and report back Friday. If “epicondolitis” isn’t better, then we are talking shots ... to relieve “severe inflammation and pain.” Leaving Doc’s office, I hopefully asked, “Can I golf this week?”

“No” he said. “Absolutely not.” He also diplomatically suggested that I should do some adjusting in my lifestyle, which would reflect and acknowledge the fact, “You are no longer a 25-year-old kid.”

What Doc Gould doesn’t understand is the often proven history on my side. The kindly fates will not desert me, and I’m certain “good can once again come from my suffering.” For the very first time in my golfing career I will absolutely have to let my left hand and arm do the work, like the pros tell us to do. This will easily knock 12 or 15 stroke off my handicap.

Can’t help but wonder how the local low-shooters are going to react to being beaten in the Labor Day tournament by a 56-year-old guy with epicondolitis.

G. George Ostrom is a national award-winning Hungry Horse News columnist. He lives in Kalispell.

Fear of bodily harm came up in discussion last week, and friends were skeptical I’ve had more bone fractures than Evel Knievel. Learned in college young people have fears which disappear, as most prove unfounded. The professor said older folks develop concerns about physical injuries but are less worried about other life issues.

Am finding the truth these days as I put on spiked treads to walk to the mailbox, use handrail going down the stairs, etc. Things never considered until getting into late seventies. Wrote the following in August 1984:

———

With over 30 certified broken bones to my credit, this writer is no stranger to temporary impairment. Fractures, and other unwelcome dents in my carcass have always been an integral part of life. They profoundly affected my career ... often for the better.

It was a skull fracture, crushed chest and broken leg from a parachute jump which brought me back home to Kalispell in the ‘50s to sponge off the parents, but it got me out of “a dangerous world,” happily into radio announcing, and I found a wonderful wife.

One whole year with a shattered right arm trussed up in a steel traction-frame changed me from a ne’er-do-well third-grade marble shark and rabbit trapper into a studious bookworm. I can never thank the truck that hit me enough.

It was a matched pair of broken arches, which washed me out of gung-ho airborne and into cushy Army desk duty.

Sitting here tonight with an ice pack on my right elbow has afforded time and inspiration for contemplating all those “lucky breaks” with which I’ve been blessed.

Latest blessing began during June hike with Over the Hill Gang. We climbed Firebrand Pass and Bearhead Mountain, where my right arm had much work swinging an ice axe. Sore elbow got worse Sunday after 36 holes of golf. This included one “powerful stroke” which struck the sod a foot behind the ball.

Unless there is severe bleeding or bone extruding through the skin, I usually shave bucks off the doctor bill by doing my own diagnostics. After guessing “tennis elbow,” I went to Stoick Drug for an elastic joint bandage and forearm muscle splint. That helped a mite, but this last Sunday things went from awful to terrible.

Sure, I knew exposing my arm to strenuous strain could be risky, but knowing how badly my family needed fresh trout for the sustenance of their bodies, I volunteered to vigorously cast dry flies across the waters while son Shannon passed me an occasional can of painkiller and steered our raft down the North Fork River. Monday morning, had to shave with left hand.

Monday afternoon, Doc Gould said I should use ice packs, take pills and report back Friday. If “epicondolitis” isn’t better, then we are talking shots ... to relieve “severe inflammation and pain.” Leaving Doc’s office, I hopefully asked, “Can I golf this week?”

“No” he said. “Absolutely not.” He also diplomatically suggested that I should do some adjusting in my lifestyle, which would reflect and acknowledge the fact, “You are no longer a 25-year-old kid.”

What Doc Gould doesn’t understand is the often proven history on my side. The kindly fates will not desert me, and I’m certain “good can once again come from my suffering.” For the very first time in my golfing career I will absolutely have to let my left hand and arm do the work, like the pros tell us to do. This will easily knock 12 or 15 stroke off my handicap.

Can’t help but wonder how the local low-shooters are going to react to being beaten in the Labor Day tournament by a 56-year-old guy with epicondolitis.

G. George Ostrom is a national award-winning Hungry Horse News columnist. He lives in Kalispell.