CONTENT WARNING: Car Accidents, Fatality Mentioned, Blood

My neighborhood went to war with some of our neighbors. They don’t live here, but they owned property on the road via a deceased relation. (May she rest in peace; she was a sweet lady.) The wife wanted to build a huge wedding barn for paid events of all sorts, mostly weddings, with a maximum capacity of around 300 people. They claimed they’d have a “no alcohol” rule, but we all know how that would go. There are always people who bring booze regardless of the rules. And it’s not like this place would have security personnel to search bags and make sure alcohol didn’t get brought in.

The location is on a part of the road with three possible routes to get to it. ALL of them are freakin’ dangerous if you don’t know the road. There are two deadly curves on my stretch, a one-car bridge on a dirt road with deadly curves on the long way ’round (the road’s a circle), and a gravel/dirt road with a single-car bridge at the bottom of a pair of steep hills. (A classmate died going off the bridge into the ravine when I was in high school. The road has a body count.)

This ain’t a place you want drunk or tired drivers cruising through. My mom had me make some big maps of the roads to show the county people (whatever group is in charge of permitting for building such projects) to illustrate just how dangerous our little roads are.

So, there was that dangerous road, the inevitability of alcohol being present at a party barn, the complete and utter lack of infrastructure (no county water, no sewers, and no public transit of any kind), and the fact this is prime hunting land and dogs are running all through the woods behind the property. (Who wants hounds baying in their wedding videos?) That, plus the fact that nearly the entire neighborhood showed up to hiss and protest the project…

Well, it was denied.

We celebrated. The would-be party barn planners posted on social media about “ignorant hillbillies” ruining their plans.

It was a very emotional subject. My parents still remember when I was tiny and they came home to find bloody handprints all over the lower half of our front door. It turned out that a guy had rolled his van on the dangerous curve. Luckily, he was spotted by a passing motorist and got help in time, but that was a scary homecoming. It stuck with us. And that guy wasn’t drunk, just speeding a little.

Screwing around with archaic weaponry like it was a toy — like in this story — causes all kinds of problems. I almost died as a teenager due to that.

I hung out with a group of reenactors and European-style martial artists, and I had been experimenting with homemade practice armor. My stuff wasn’t pretty, but it cost almost nothing and was quite effective, as was demonstrated by this one idiot.

He was the cousin of one of our members that was visiting. He’d gotten ahold of a poniard dagger and was screwing around with it — slashes, stabs, etc. Just as I came around a corner to show off my newest, best cuirass — thankfully, I was wearing it — the idiot did a backhanded stab that thunked into the solar plexus area of the cuirass.

Everyone’s eyes got big as I rocked back on my heels. They’d been telling him to put the dagger away and stop screwing around before someone got hurt.

Luckily, the guy he accidentally stabbed was wearing armor intended for use with live blades, on the theory that if it could handle battle-sharp steel, practice weapons wouldn’t leave a mark.

The blade went in about an inch into the cuirass, and then the tip snapped off.

I got a few orders for armor pieces from people who saw that happen.

(Editor’s Note: A cuirass is armor consisting of a breastplate and a backplate fastened together.)

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His Problems Are Quickly Compounding

When I was about ten, my father and I were fishing from a pier in Florida. There were people every few yards, so it was pretty crowded so early in the morning. I’d been fishing for a while so I knew a bit about it, even as young as I was.

There was another father-son duo behind us on the other side of the pier. Everybody talked to each other in those days, so it was a pleasant outing.

Suddenly, the kid, maybe five or six, got a bite, and his dad was helping him reel it in.

As soon as the fish came out of the water, the kid hollered:

Kid: “It’s a baby whale! Daddy, I caught a baby whale!”

All the people within earshot took notice and watched as the kid reeled in his first blowfish.

I work in the city and usually take the bus home. As anyone who commutes knows, these buses can get packed, especially during rush hour. On this particular day, I managed to snag a seat, which felt like winning the lottery after a long day at work. I had my earbuds in and was half-asleep, lost in my music.

A few stops into my ride, a woman and her son, who looked to be about ten years old, got on the bus. It was clear from the get-go that there were no seats available, but that didn’t stop [Woman] from scanning the bus like she was on a mission. She locked eyes with me and bee-lined in my direction.

She spoke to me in a tone that was more demanding than polite.

Woman: “Excuse me, could you let my son sit down? He’s really tired from his day and needs to sit.”

I was surprised that she singled me out since there were other people, some elderly, standing, as well. I was about to respond, maybe even stand up, despite feeling exhausted myself, when another woman standing nearby spoke up.

Helpful Woman: *In a kind but firm tone* “Ma’am, it’s not right to single out someone for their seat. We’re all tired after a long day. Perhaps your son can manage standing for a bit.”

[Woman]’s face turned a shade of red.

Woman: “But he’s just a child, and children need to sit. It’s common courtesy!”

The bus was unusually silent, with everyone seemingly tuned into our conversation. [Helpful Woman], undeterred, replied:

Helpful Woman: “I understand, but so do the elderly, the disabled, and those who’ve had long days at work. We can’t always expect others to give up their comfort for us. It’s a valuable lesson in consideration and patience.”

[Woman] looked ready to argue more but seemed to realize that the bus audience wasn’t on her side. She muttered something under her breath about “rude people” and moved slightly away, still standing.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, but the atmosphere felt a bit charged.

When my stop arrived, I got up, and as I passed [Helpful Woman], she gave me a small smile and a nod as if to say, “You did the right thing.” I nodded back in gratitude, feeling relieved but also a bit surprised at how the situation unfolded.

My husband injured his back and can’t lift heavy things. When we go grocery shopping, I do the loading and unloading. We just came from our local bulk retailer, so everything is big and often heavier than he is comfortable lifting. He climbs in the car, and I start unloading the cart.

A man is passing by and speaks up. 

Man: “What’s wrong? Don’t you have a man to do that for you?”

Me: “I’m fine, thank you.”

Man: “I see him in the car. Why doesn’t he help?”

Me: “I said I’m fine.”

Man: “I just think women shouldn’t do heavy lifting like that. Your body isn’t—”

Me: *Sigh* “Fine, load my car.”

Man: “What?”

Me: “Are you not a man?”

Man: “I’m not your husband!”

Me: “Then maybe f*** off.”

He walks off, but I can hear him muttering to himself. When I get in the car, my husband is sitting in his seat grinning. 

Husband: *Joking* “You poor, useless woman.”

Me: “I know, I know.”