Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



Saturday, September 22, 2018

A Crime of Coffin

Husby getting into character for 'Arsenic and Old Lace'.
Husby has a scar on his chin.
A long scar from a large wound.
A wound that took several stitches to close.
And I gave it to him.
Well, me and a coffin.
You’re right. Maybe I should explain . . .
Husby and I have, for more years than I care to count, been involved in the theatre scene.
Writing, directing, producing, acting, building, equipping, costuming, makeup-ing.
An almost endless round of ‘ing’.
For one of those productions, Husby had constructed a coffin.
Okay, we can’t for the life of us remember which production – one of the hundreds – but it was built for the sole purpose of looking coffin-ish onstage.
After the production, it ended up residing (along with thousands of other props and set pieces), in the large storage space belonging to our theatre group. A space that needed to be periodically reshuffled to make room for more and newer.
Ugh.
At this particular point in time, the coffin, which until then had had a special spot on the floor, was going up on top of a cabinet.
Okay, I said this was a storage room, I never said anything about safety standards.
Back to my story . . .
Husby and I were, as per usual, the shufflers. We had shifted and sorted and made room. Cleared a path to facilitate.
Hefted the coffin.
And started in.
And that’s where the whole scenario came crashing down.
Literally.
Husby, on the front end, tripped.
Me, on the back end, didn’t super-humanly grab the coffin and heft it into the air and out of damaging range.
Thus, with our forward momentum, exacerbated (Ooh! Good word!) by bulky coffin, Husby went to his knees.
And plowed headfirst into a wooden chair.
A chair that had been in the kitchen of several plays.
The bedroom of several more.
And at least ten living rooms.
A sturdy chair; built to last. I probably don’t have to tell you which - when wood met chin - lasted.
When I finally pulled the coffin off my man, he was holding a hand to his face.
And blood was dripping through his fingers.
Don’t you hate it when that happens?
After I had exclaimed and swabbed, we examined.
“I think it’s all right,” Husby said. But as he spoke, I watched the split in his lower lip puff and blow with each word.
Ewwww.
A hospital and stitchery were indicated. I drove him there and he received prompt medical attention.
And a sexy scar.
Which he gladly shows to anyone even remotely interested. While he graces them with lurid tales of his wife’s ongoing abuse.
Sigh.
P.S. Don’t ask about the scar up on his cheek from - and I swear this is true - a ‘friendly’ little game of football.

7 comments:

  1. As bad as that was, I get the feeling it could have been even worse ...

    What doesn't kill us gives us great stories, though :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. Sigh. The first time my partner's lung collapsed he strongly implied to his work mates that I had something to do with it.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Poor guy...well kinda poor but with a sexy scar it doesn't really matter. You made me laugh!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Well that's a story nobody would ever believe - yes I split my husband's chin with a coffin! I actually split my son's chin when he was a toddler by play wrestling on the bed and he whacked it on the wooden bedframe - still has the scar to show my poor maternal skills - which are legendary!

    ReplyDelete
  5. With your sewing skills, (Christmas pyjamas, Santa costumes), you probably could have sewed him up right there, but a hospital was probably the wiser choice.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Oh, those falls! But at least you got a good story in it and he wasn't badly hurt. Just his pride, maybe, a little?

    ReplyDelete

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