Why I don't jump the ditches

My parents gave me lots of things: food, shelter, love, nurturing, encouragement, and on and on.

They did not, however, provide me with the DNA required for things like coordination.

Which is why Brandon had to be so careful with his purple big toe, and often calls me "Grace," followed by a "Yeah right..." under his breath.

Anyway, a point of contention in our marriage we often is meet is the fact that I don't (or won't, interpret it how you will) jump the irrigation ditches.

This drives Brandon absolutely up the wall. Because when it's time to work the only action words allowed are "Go!" and "Fast!" — definitely not "Take an extra 20 seconds to run to the closest bridge."

But I do it anyway. I'd like to think it's just to watch him roll his eyes, because that's awfully cute, you know, but it's not. It's because I know my ditch-jumping skills very well. They don't exist.

Anyway, Brandon doesn't exactly appreciate this, because it takes a little extra time (in the form of seconds, y'all). But I place my safety, well-being and dryness above his disdain.

And until Friday, I could say that in 2.5 years of irrigating, I had never really fallen into the ditch.

One time last summer, I had a leg get pulled in by a giant check that just had too much weight behind it (in the form of a wall of water) for me when I started yanking on it to get it out of the ditch.

But I had yet to slip and fall while lunging across the water. I took great pride in this.

I can't tell you how many times I've had someone ask me, upon watching Brandon jump a ditch, if we ever fall in. And my standard response? "Brandon does."

Because he does. All. The. Time.

Now, we do have a few smaller ditches I will attempt to jump if there's not a close bridge. But we have this one ditch, at the field we have cotton in right now, that is a monster. And I NEVER jump that sucker.

Wouldn't you know, that this field is primarily my responsibility, too (as Manager of Rocker 7 Farms West and all). And has big gaps between the bridges. Meaning, I sometimes have to walk down five borders or so before I can safely cross.

Most of the time, I'm okay with that. But some days, when it's 115 out, and there are bad spots on the ditch bank (where all the dirt has been washed away, leaving only the concrete edge of the ditch itself, testing my coordination skills to the max), I look at the other side longingly, wishing I could jump.

There was only one place down the entire ditch I ever attempted to jump. There, the concrete had cracked and shifted, creating a little ledge on one side, if you will. When the ditch was only half full of water there, I could land safely on that ledge without having to chance stretching all the way across the thing.

I had to work in this particular spot Friday afternoon. So I braved it and jumped across, safely making it to The Other Side to close the port hole. Coming back?

Not as graceful.

There was a lining of mud that had crept it's way up into my landing ledge. So, as I'm sure you can imagine, as soon as my foot hit it, I slipped. And crashed. Wiped out.

Did I mention this field is also right along a busy road? Routinely traveled by Brandon's friends and fellow farmers? Who drive by honking and waving all the time?

Yeah...

So before I could even fully take in the pain of my wipe out, I scrambled to my feet and ran to the truck, hoping I could make it out of there before anyone we knew saw me.

Once there, this is what I saw:

Ouch. Is all I have to say.

So I immediately called Brandon and told him to never give me a hard time about not jumping ditches again, because clearly, I'm not cut out for it.

I also asked to be placed on the injury list for weekend irrigating.

I'm limping down the ditch bank (and across the bridges) instead.