Sunday, June 03, 2018

Cowgirl Sass & Savvy (revisited)

Don’t get too friendly with your local EMT’s

By Julie Carter

America’s finest – our local law enforcement and emergency respondents. And the best thing for anyone is to never ever need any of them.

Every now and then we all find ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s not hard to do and it isn’t until it is too late that we realize that is just what happened.

Such was my Saturday before the 4th of July. I was, as I usually am at that time of year, in the rodeo arena taking photos of some cowboy event. This one happened to be the Youth Ranch Rodeo – kids on fast running horses.

In the midst of one of the events I proceeded to get myself run into by a very fast running horse. It wasn’t a pretty sight – me flying, camera flying, and sunglasses airborne. It is amazing the thoughts that can go through your mind during the split seconds of wreck like that.

Beyond the “he is going to hit me” and the “this is going to hurt” is the “oh no, my camera!” Although my camera, a baby at only 6 months old, is better insured than I am, it also is a critical part of my job and certainly vital on this holiday weekend.

Before the dust had settled, I rolled over from the sprawled side-back position I had landed and somewhat un-spryly scrambled to my feet.

Every effort was made to appear perfectly healthy to the emergency medical technicians hanging on the fence like vultures waiting for their first piece of meat or someone to stop breathing. Hey, it is their job.

Here is the danger. I know these fine, highly qualified heroes. They are my friends as well as my heroes. But there isn’t a one of them I want giving me mouth to mouth while I’m awake and know about it. And when they wanted to check my leg? Well, I just told them they would have to shoot me with a gun first to get me to take my britches off.

The moral of this story is – don’t make friends with the people who can save your life because you might not let them do it when it really is necessary.

Reaching for any parts that might be in the dirt before they were trampled by concerned bystanders, I hobbled to the fence, bruised and “contused,” but headed for better days –in about a week.

The best part came the next day. Back in the arena with the kids on running horses, a fair board member presented me with a 10-foot piece of crime scene tape – the yellow plastic ribbon that has in bold print “Do Not Cross This Line” repeated the length of it.

It was tied around my neck like a necktie and became part of my wardrobe for the day. It seemed to work. I didn’t get run over again and not because there weren’t a few attempts.

To my heroes in the big box truck with the flashing lights: Thank you for being who you are and doing what you do. You honor me with your friendship.

With God’s help, may I always remain the embedded reporter on the scene, not the “in bed” reporter from the scene.

© Julie Carter 2006

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