Redneck Easter

Hope you all had a wonderful Easter. Ours, well…..was unforgettable. Let me share.

The Stewarts love to get together for Easter. Kate’s family takes a pass on the celebration and settles for a Sunday meal instead. BORING! On the Stewart side mom is the planner, making sure every detail is thought through from the Easter eggs to the potato salad. Normally it is held at my parent’s house in Alamo. This year the rain forced festivities inside. I, being the thoughtful son, offered our home as an alternate location. Our home is a little bigger than my parents and gives the grandkids more places roam.

Suggesting such a thing, however, is a delicate process. My mother is a Holt, and they are an interesting breed. Holts (in general) never say what they feel, but react in generalities and then hide true emotion for years on end. My mother is the master of hiding both emotion and information. Everything is top secret. For example, I will say to her, did you hear what happened to so and so? She will respond, no, what? I will explain and she will remark, wow, I had no idea. Days later I will find out she knew all along and in most occasions knew way more than I did! Very sneaky.

They (Holts) also are masters of hiding their true feelings on any subject. This knowledge worried me as I thought through how I possibly would phrase the offer of our home in a way that was perceived as non-threatening and genuine. The conversation went something like this. Dad, Sean here, let me talk to mom. (it is necessary to immediately bypass dad because he is the worst at dealing with the Holt approach. Dad is to honest, always saying exactly what he is feeling. I have seen the directness of Stewarts and the evasiveness of Holts clash on may occasions and did not wish to witness it again on such a wonderful Saturday morning) If I had used dad as an intermediary it would have gone something like this…Dad, want you to know that we would be happy to host the event today if you and mom felt it would be a better venue, considering the weather. Dad would have replied, wait a second let me ask your mother. Kathy, Sean thinks our house is too small for everyone and wants to take over the event by moving it to his place!.

No, that would have been bad.. So instead, the conversation went something like this. Mom, Sean here….it is still raining. Were you planning on doing the Easter egg hunt outside? You know, you do a great job with this….and I don’t want to butt in…believe me….but I wanted you to know that, if you would like, you are welcome to use our house if it would help in any way. Pause…….hold breath……. Silence…… awkward silence….time to speak………because, you know….we don’t have grass yet but the basement might be a fun place to hide eggs out of the rain…….. and then she responded. Let me think about it. Can I call you back?

Call me back? What did that mean? Was she offended? Was she really thinking about it, or busy with something else? Was she trying to figure out how to tell me no without hurting my feelings? Does she know I don’t really care and am trying to be nice, or does she feel pressured because she thinks my mind is set on this…….. and then it dawns on me… I am half Holt… I turn to see Kate shaking her head at me. Seriously, she says with some sarcasm, do you think you might be overanalyzing this one? She clearly doesn’t understand.

An hour or so later the phone rang and our offer was accepted. The Easter party was moved to our house and before long the family started to arrive. All Stewart parties begin (and often end) with food As always, my mother had prepared enough food for five parties. I of course ate like it would be my last meal, gorging myself with baked beans and ham, desserts I can’t pronounce, and any candy that happened to be in my direct path. After an hour or so of eating I rolled myself to the couch and attempted to pass out.

Shortly after my eyes had closed I was awaken to the announcement that the Easter egg hunt was ready to begin. Mom, of course, takes the time honored tradition of an Easter egg hunt to a new level. Each grandchild chose a number that corresponded with numbers written on the eggs. The child was to hunt only for eggs with their number. Each child had 15 eggs to find. Each egg had coupons to be redeemed by Grandpa for gifts appropriate for each child. The rules alone took five minutes to review. What happened to the old fashion, free for all, push each other and run to find real eggs?

After the hunt the kids dispersed to play x-box, dress-ups, and tea parties. The men assembled in what is supposed to be the back yard to shoot clay pigeons. The back yard overlooks the fields and our cattle herd. How more redneck can you get than shooting clay pigeons out of your back yard? After a few hundred rounds and the successful shattering of  four or five clay pigeons, we lost interest and assumed our positions on the couch. I was dozing in and out while attempting to watch the dodger game. I could hear Kate and the other ladies complaining about messy kids and husbands who don’t listen from somewhere in the kitchen. Life doesn’t get any better.

Then, I was awaken by my son who had seen pigeons landing on the roof and was in need of assistance. Pigeons are messy creatures who do their business all over our nice roof. As a result, we have issued an extermination order for any pigeon who dares to fly by or roost near our home. Duston and I crept along each side of the home. When the pigeons fly we have a clear shot at them. Again, doesn’t get more red-neck than this! After exterminating a few we returned to the garage to put away our weapons a resume our positions on the couch. It was then I saw it, my KTM 450 glowing in the corner, begging for a ride. It called out to me in a way only at KTM can. I was drawn to it.

I knew it was wrong. The family was here, and nowhere in the agenda was there a place for riding dirtbikes. It had just stopped raining, and the ground was moist. I pictured myself flying over the doubles, wind on my cheeks and smell of exhaust in the air. I decided just to start it to see how it was running. It sounded so good. I was in nice clothes and decided to forego the pain of putting on riding pants and boots, but did grab my helmet.

It had been weeks since I had ridden. The bike purred as I gave it some throttle and headed for he first small jump. We had just watched last week’s Supercross and I was feeling quite bold. There was a wagon parked on top of the jump and I was so focused on the path around the wagon I overlooked the rock that had been kicked up in front of me. My front tire hit the rock turning me and the bike sideways. Instead of going around the jump and trying again I decided to give it a bit more gas to straighten out. It had worked in the past and made so much sense…when in trouble go faster…

The increase in acceleration lifted the front end off of the ground. And I could feel myself slipping to the back of the bike. For a moment I thought I could save it. It was a short moment. As I reached the crest of the jump my bike and I parted ways. I remember thinking to myself that the decision to sneak in a ride during the Easter get together was not one of my best decisions. I also remember thinking how hard the ground looked below and wondering if anyone was watching this madness. I attempted to tuck but landed on my knees in a most ungraceful fashion. As I finally came to a stop and could breath I noticed my legs twisted like a pretzel. That can’t be good I thought.

I am not the best with pain. I rolled around for a while groaning. My brother in law and most of the kids had witnessed the spectacle from nearby and came to my aid. My son Jerett asked me what I was doing on the ground. Not wanting to alarm him I told him I was just taking a break. He remarked that I was getting all dirty and mom was going to be very angry. He was right, mom was going to be very angry.

After getting me to the house and getting the shoe off of the left foot I was evaluated by two family EMT’s. Both tugged and prodded and announced it was likely just a sprain. I was propped up and when all seemed to be under control my dad took the opportunity to reiterate his position on dirtbikes and the idiots who ride them. I had just ordered a new bike for Duston and I remembered it was to be delivered that very afternoon. Sweat formed on my forehead as I pictured the delivery of yet anther death machine to my house with the family still in town. Could this afternoon get any better?

My wife was furious. Furious at me for being so stupid and furious at the family for doting over me despite my stupidity. After an hour or so the crowd dispersed. Shortly thereafter the new bike arrived. Luck was back on my side.

Monday x-rays revealed a broken leg. Nice one Sean. I am trying to learn the art of crutches and swearing a lot during the process. That, though, will have to be another update.