It ain’t pretty but it sure is beautiful: ADA accommodations like a concrete pad can be pretty cheap

We have needed new gravel on our driveway for a couple of years now. Dry sandy soil, thick tree roots exposed by erosion, and bumps left from heavy work equipment: All have made getting around our place more and more difficult. Actually for the past few months it’s caused me to go out less and stick to the porch instead. With every year and every gully washer of a storm, the problem has grown worse. We’ve invited contractors who seem interested in the job, but then don’t hear from them again. I’m guessing that our job is too small to warrant their time, but who knows?

Then last week, I got stuck at the base of the ramp in front of the house. I was chasing a rare patch of winter sunshine, being careful not to stray too far, but on that day, even 3 feet out was too far. When I turned to go back up the ramp, my wheelchair tire started spinning in the dirt. I called Mab over to help eye up the situation, and together we buried that tire down even deeper.

They say good guys wear white hats. Well, the good guy in my story drives a white pickup. And the first thing I saw when I lifted my eyes from the buried tire was that white pickup passing by on the street. It was my buddy Gary coming home from work.

“Siri, call Gary.”

A few short minutes later, the cavalry had arrived: The white pickup pulled up right there in front of us and out piled Gary. He’s a big guy, and even though his hip was ailing, he wasn’t content to just help with pushing. Instead, he lifted the rear of the wheelchair right out of the dirt. I skedaddled a retreat up the ramp before I could land in any more trouble, but Gary didn’t leave right away — here-around you’ve got to “visit” first. All the while, he scratched his head, looking at the derned problem-spot at the foot of the ramp.

It was a couple days later, a Saturday, when he showed up again. In the bed of his vehicle he’d loaded five bags of gravel and two more of concrete mix. He raked the rock into a hook shape, curving away from the ramp. Then he spread the powdered concrete over the gravel. Mab brought the water hose and the two of them worked the concrete into the rock. I was in bed, healing from a saddle sore, during all this. But by the time I laid eyes on it a couple days later, here’s what I saw:

Not good pics, but I've gotta get this posted already.

Behold $83 of materials, 700 pounds of material, less than two hours’ work, and a whole heck of a lot of friendship. The “pad” is about 3.5 feet wide and extends out some 9 feet before curving back around like the tail of comma, giving me a good start up the driveway. For now, this gets me through. To harden a couple of remaining loose patches of gravel, Gary brought one more bag of concrete to add over the top. So now it comes to about $90.

As has been stressed over and over by the Department of Justice and many others since introduction of the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, access accommodations needn’t be expensive — they only take a willingness to do them. Praise be for good friends who make life a joy. Meanwhile, I’ve found another contact for gravel, and we’ll see how it goes.

World Gone Sideways: Bedsore Recovery Turns Life Topsy-Tervy

I ruptured my hull.

I done sprung a pressure sore down there, on my business end. Actually not a pressure sore, it’s a pressure “sort of”: started with a tiny cut, a fissure in the skin. When we found it I stayed in bed the whole next day, that’s how seriously I took it, and in the morning it looked safe to sail again. I kept my sails trimmed, lying back frequently in my wheelchair to take pressure off, and everything was cool.

But the next morning, we were taking on water. The split had splat. The cut had widened into … well, you don’t need the details. But now it was a thing, with its own address. It had set up shop.

For a wheelchair user this is a code red. We do our best work on our asses. Some of us even are asses. Getting a wound there would be something like a nondisabled person stepping on a nail or broken bottle, except a wheelchair user doesn’t have a second, uninjured ass he can still get around on with a crutch for a couple of weeks.

Unless you’re lucky, these things heal slow, so I’ve been in bed since last week. Once I spent the better part of a summer in bed, biding my time. When I finally made my way out of the house in late August, the bluest sky in history was out there waiting for me, blUing its ever-lovin’ top off, right above my head. Heavenly days!

But back to the here and now. In true Texas fashion, where we go bigger and more catastrophic than anyplace else, my lovely wife tripped while she was walking the critter, and landed hard on her shoulder. The urgent care center said nothing had broken or ruptured, so she’s been going around doing everything, including the caregiving, with one arm. Baby’s still got chops, but does em at half-speed.

Capsized  

A couple of weeks in, we’re generally on the mend but it’s slow going. Mary Anne is the quickest of studies, learning how to do everything one-handed, and taking more breaks through the day. She has new respect for our friend Judy, who was born with half an arm. “How ever does she put on her bra?” Judy loved that.

I am lying on my side now writing you this. And we can't get the laptop computer to lie at the same angle as my face, so it's … weird. My world is tilted, like the bad guys' hideouts in the Batman TV show.

Mary Anne made some fried rice, zapped up with sambal oelek pepper paste from Indonesia. Sitting on a stool, she feeds us the spicy rice as I lie capsized in bed. It’s at once pathetic and more romantic than our first date together, which was 35 years and 10 days ago.

But we’ll survive and rise again, like we’ve done before, then, down the line, stumble into another breakdown, so that we can rise again from that one. The waves they go up and down, but always they carry us forward. Anchors aweigh.