Growing up we used a wheelbarrow. My upper body has never been as strong as my legs. I’m known to flop over a wheelbarrow full of hours of hard work with ease.
With all of those “fun” childhood wheelbarrow memories, I begged my husband for a wagon. Four wheels, sturdy, long handle, a wagon.
(Side note: though we are FAR from wealthy I am spoiled. My husband takes amazing care of me so when I say I “begged”…ok “begged” isn’t the right wording…after a long session of hard yard work, covered in scrapes and thorns, I Bambi eyed my husband and told him I work hard. I deserve a wagon. I don’t remember a foot stomp but it’s possible.)
I wanted a wagon, a good and sturdy one.
For some girls its expensive shoes and purses, and I like those too but my yard tools aren’t going in my Coach bag.
So we go and buy the wagon and bring it home and put it together. It’s green metal with off roadish type tires. I’m seriously the child at Christmas. It’s ready to go to work with me and I love it.
Huge smile on my face, I load it up with potting soil and a watering can and tools and plants. My shed on wheels.
Proudly I drag it over to the driveway ready to head down to re-pot the front entrance planters with a couple of lantana. I’ve got way too much weight in my new wagon and my driveway is gravel and steep but apparently I also have no sense when excited about a new toy despite the fact I am not 5 years old.
*Now if I was watching me on TV getting ready to do this I would be saying “she’s stupid, there’s too much in that wagon and that driveway is long and steep, then roll my eyes claiming home video shows are predictable and set up. But there I was, just thankfully no one filming it.*
It’s getting ready to be bad fast. The clunky steel toe boots I work in have no traction on the gravel and now I’m sliding. The too heavy wagon is coming fast and sideways and pushing me down the hill with it. I’m too stubborn to bail on my new wagon and it’s way too dangerous to leap off into my “yard” so I skid me and the wagon over to the side and brace myself. I’m roughly a quarter of the way down and alone out there hanging on.
Now I’m only sliding in short, halting, inches… boots turned sideways trying to slow me… a moment flashes in my mind where I realize just how stupid I look to say, a person scaling Mt. Everest…
I don’t take my wagon straight down the driveway anymore. Oh whatever… me and a wheelbarrow woulda been way worse.