Imagine if you will a 68 year old bald-headed man with one leg. He is trying to get some exercise after his recent surgery, and when he goes too long without “wearing” his leg, it hurts him. He is clothed in a pair of “Sunday pants” and wearing “Sunday shoes.” This is because when the ambulance came to get him, he had on his Sunday Leg.
I am not kidding.
We call it his Sunday Leg.
We’ve always called it his Sunday Leg.
About 20 years ago now a new preacher came to where my parents go to church. One Sunday the song leader couldn’t attend, so the preacher asked Daddy if he would possibly lead singing. He told him he was sorry that he couldn’t because he didn’t have on his Sunday Leg. The preacher’s wife was within hearing of this and laughed so hard she nearly passed out. For real. She was trying not to laugh loudly, because she didn’t want to hurt Daddy’s feelings, and she got a little carried away. She now calls it his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ Leg. The non-Sunday Leg makes a very distinct noise which I can imitate perfectly. Too bad I don’t have sound on this thing.
The Sunday Leg, it is really a “spare” for those unfortunate accidents I mentioned here–like running over your Work Leg with a car, for instance. It BECOMES the Sunday Leg because it squeaks less than the other leg. It leans against the wall in my parents’ bedroom with the Sunday shoe and the Sunday pants on it all week long until Sunday when my father wears it for approximately 4 hours. If he doesn’t need to go hunting or driving the tractor or generally making a mess, he may leave it on until after church on Sunday night. He changes the pants from time to time when they need washing, but the shoe stays put.
My biggest fear as a teen/pre-married person was that Daddy’s Sunday Leg would be out of commission when I got married, and he would have to wear the other leg which would squeak all the way down the aisle.
Thus, seeing as how it was Sunday when the ambulance came to whisk him away, he had on his Sunday Leg.
So, today, when Daddy was trying to walk the halls of the hospital, he had on the Sunday Leg, and the Sunday shoes, and the Sunday pants, and a hospital gown. He was holding onto a wheel chair for support (like a make-do walker), but the chair kept tipping up–popping wheelies if you will–when Daddy would lean on it. To add some ballast to the errant wheel chair/walker, my father instructed my mother who was pulling along his I.V. pole to sit in it please.
And there they were–Daddy dressed to the 4 1/2’s (rather than the 9’s) in his church clothes and hospital gown, while my perfectly (hopefully) healthy mother sat in the wheel chair holding onto the I.V. pole getting a free ride.
See why we laugh so much?
If THAT didn’t make you laugh, click over here. I recently found this chick through either Sarah or Antique Mommy or both. Her post today is well written and hilarious.
And has NOTHING whatsoever to do with legs of any sort. I promise.