A Wee Wonko Story

Many, many moons ago when Wonko was an innocent babe… No, wait — THAT wasn’t Wonko

CowboyAt any rate, a long time ago when Wonko (a.k.a. Ryan) was much smaller than he is now (and his brain wasn’t fully developed), the kids and I were in our somewhat elderly Oldsmobile one day on our way home from Alamogordo, NM to Holloman AFB. In case you’re lousy at geography like I am (the only places I can reliably point to on a map are places where I’ve lived — fortunately I’ve lived in a lot of places), these are located 7 miles apart, somewhere in the middle of the southern New Mexican desert.

The air conditioning in the Olds left much to be desired, so to compensate we had mounted a small fan on the ceiling just behind the dome light to guide whatever coldish wisps of air the A/C did manage to sputter out in the general direction of the back seat.

On this particular day, the fan was adjusted so it would blow on Ryan, who was hot, and not on Risa, who somehow, in spite of the fact that it was 110ยฐF in the shade, was cold. Rustin was sitting in the middle being his usual mellow self, and didn’t seem to have a preference.

As we entered the base and made the sharp left turn that would take us to the housing area, momentum caused the fan to swing toward the opposite side of the car. Chaos immediately ensued; Risa yelled because it was making her cold(er), Ryan yelled because he was hot, and Rusty yelled because everyone else was yelling, and when you’re eight months old, that’s a good enough reason.

Using my well-developed driving-Mom talents, I skillfully negotiated the next corner with one hand and a knee, while reaching back to adjust the fan with my other hand. Somehow (and I say that because I later attempted to reproduce this and was completely unable) my index finger went through the fan housing and was instantly pulverized by the spinning blades, one of which broke off from the force of the impact. I reflexively jerked my hand back, and the fan stopped.

I brought the injured digit around where I could see it, while my left hand and knee instinctively continued guiding the car toward our destination. (Moms are creatures with amazing abilities, when necessary.) As my stunned brain gradually began to register input from the real world again, I became aware of three things. The first was the knowledge that if I got blood on the upholstery, my then-husband was going to kill me. The second was that, in just a few nanoseconds, this was really gonna HURT. (I was right.) The third was Ryan’s exasperated voice emanating from the back seat:

“MOOOOOM!!! You BROKE the fan! Now we’re gonna be HOT!!!”

Somehow, in spite of the blinding pain, I managed to deposit the kids with a neighbor without wrecking the car or bleeding on its interior. I borrowed some paper towels from her to absorb the blood, and drove myself to the ER.

The airman at the desk, not noticing the blood-soaked wad around my right hand that was clutched in my left hand at chest level (because it hurt even worse when it was any lower), asked me why I was there. I pushed the bloody soggy mess of redness closer to his face and said, “I stuck my finger in a fan.” His eyebrows rose at the sight of all the blood, and he gave me a startled look. “Why?” he asked. I remember thinking that this was probably a golden opportunity for a snappy comeback, if only I weren’t in too much pain to think of one. Mentally excusing his stupidness (after all, he WAS just an airman) I allowed him to lead me to an examination room.

After a throbbing, pain-filled eternity, a doctor finally appeared. “Oh, my,” he said, looking at my bloody pseudo-bandage. (At least he was somewhat observant.) “What did you do to your hand?” “I stuck my finger in a fan,” I replied. He looked puzzled. “Why?” Somewhere inside of me, my sarcastic alter-ego curled up in total agony.

To this day, I have not been able to come up with a suitable retort. I think it’s the pain of the memory that blocks my creative sarcastic efforts. So there’s really not a dramatic finish to the story. I just like telling it because of the sheepish look it invariably brings to Ryan’s face. ๐Ÿ™‚

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8 Responses to A Wee Wonko Story

  1. Wonko says:

    For crying out loud

    You posted the most embarrassing kid picture of me that you could possibly find, didn’t you? Thanks a LOT. ๐Ÿ˜›

  2. Ruth says:

    Ryanโ€™s GuitarRe: For crying out loud

    I thought it was pretty cute, actually. ๐Ÿ™‚ And I haven’t scanned that many of your kid pictures so there weren’t a lot to choose from! But if you’d like me to, I could use this one instead…

  3. Weasel says:

    Calvin & Hobbes strikes again!

    Havent you to some point answered your own question in this article at wonko.com ๐Ÿ˜‰

  4. Ruth says:

    Re: Calvin & Hobbes strikes again!

    Wow, you’re right, I did! ๐Ÿ™‚

  5. Brother Jon says:

    A belated comeback…

    Maybe:

    “To see if it would hurt”
    “It worked out better the last time”
    “I thought it was too long”
    “My finger was possessed by Satan”
    “I missed my manicure”
    “I’ve always wanted to”
    “The voices in my head told me to”

    There are infinite possibilities, although all of them are unlikely under those circumstances just to pop into your head.

    By the way, an embarassing pic of Wonko is fair game – he posted a horrific one of me on his homepage at E2.

  6. Ruth says:

    Re: A belated comeback…

    Phooey. I looked and looked, and couldn’t find the horrific picture of you. (Unless you were disguised as a palm tree or a large rock.) I wanna see!!!

  7. Wonko says:

    Re: A belated comeback…

    I did? When was this?

  8. Brother Jon says:

    Re: A belated comeback…

    It was awhile back – a picture of me on Dad’s new 20-foot metal-framed swing right when I was really leaning into it to get a good height. It was almost as bad as my driver’s license picture.

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