I have been accident-prone all of my life, and the one motto I have never followed is ‘Look before you leap!" My family and friends have been kept amused, amazed and aghast at my many disasters and near misses. Over the years, I have sat on a hot kerosene heater, fallen from the back of a moving utility, broken toes in various, unusual ways, and received stitches from running into a barb wire fence. At any crash or unusual disturbance in my childhood home, my mother would call out:"What have you done now, Alannah,” or, “You were born with two left feet, my girl.”
One of the most memorable incidences happened on the first day of a long awaited holiday. Looking back I can still picture this particular morning. It was a cold August dawn with the sun rising over the car shed on my sister’s property. The surrounding bush, mulga and box trees and the scented sandalwood, glistened with moisture; and the galahs and ‘happy jacks’ were making their usual morning cacophony. The sheep dogs yelped excitedly at the activities going on near their yard. All of these things are still clear to me because this was the day my husband, Terry, shot me.
Terry had bought a new gun for his pig-shooting expedition into the wilds of Far South Western Queensland. The rifle was a Martini Rossi 357 Magnum and it was brand new. After an early breakfast (chops and onion gravy, a real bush meal), we all gathered around the battered Suzuki jeep to plan the massacre. I know that pigs are vermin, destroy livestock and carry diseases, but I have never killed a living thing and was only along for the hell-raising ride (better than a roller coaster!) I was starting up a Yamaha Ag bike and felt a heavy object hit me in the arm. I thought one of the other intrepid hunters wanted to ride the bike and had thrown a rock at me, in jest. Suddenly, I was on the ground and blood was spurting all over my face. “Some bastard has shot me!” I screamed.
Pandemonium broke out.
Terry dropped the gun and ran around in circles near me. He had only recently completed a first-aid course. It didn’t help me. All he could say was: “You are going to die, I’ve killed you.” This really cheered me up! Robyn, my sister, bundled us into the trusty Kingswood and headed for the next property to phone the ambulance. I was the calmest member in the car and can still see the speedo climbing up to 150-160 kilometres per hour. While Robyn phoned the ambulance she asked one of her other guests to fuel up the car. In ignorance, because he was a city slicker, he filled it with diesel. Robyn jumped up and down with rage and frustration; and borrowed the neighbour’s car, which had collided with a cow the day before. The radiator squirted water onto the windscreen, and so, with the wipers working furiously, Robyn swearing, Terry crying and me bleeding, we were on our way to meet the ambulance, which had to come from Quilpie seventy kilometres away. The song on the radio was “I shot the Sheriff”; and every couple of minutes Robyn would turn around and slap me across the face to stop me from going to sleep. Therefore, I finished up with a bruised face as well.
Later, when everything had calmed down, it was discovered that the gun was faulty and had misfired. Luckily, Terry had it pointed downwards and I only received the ricochet which, however, managed to shatter my radius and cause extensive muscle damage. After an operation and physiotherapy, I recovered, but not my loathing for firearms. ‘The day Terry shot Alannah’ is one of my family’s most loved stories, and, although the outcome could have been tragic, it has provided plenty of laughs.
Another mishap, which stands out, occurred not long ago. In the small town I call home, there’s always something happening for the gossips to talk about. In this instance, I provided enough entertainment for weeks. Mix together a bottle or two of Chardonnay, techno music, a table and yours truly; and you have a recipe for disaster! To amuse the other guests I decided a spot of table dancing was called for. Of course the table collapsed, and I fell heavily onto my face and broke my cheekbone. Both my eyes were puffy and black; and the left side of my face was swollen. I resembled ‘the elephant man’ for over a week. This was about the time I decided that being a geriatric teenager was hazardous to my health.
There have been many dramas and unhappy times in my life, but I have always bounced back. The ability to laugh at myself has helped me through the difficult stages of my life, and I feel that the medical profession should dole out laughter instead of Prozac. That is why my motto is: “Laughter is the best medicine.”
