As with residential places most anywhere, the bulk are plastics, glass and metal. Paper is handled separately, organic matters are managed with on-site composting in anticipation of an eventual farm-to-table agricultural program that a focused and dedicated populace will set itself to coax and manage.
My purpose here is to explain what ensued: That photo is me in a wheelchair rigged up by the gang after they found me under the truck, screaming my head off after I slipped while clambering into its cab by myself, even though that is a trick I've performed very well countless times in the past.
On this occasion, not so good. One leg buckles, the other leg breaks.
OOPS. DO NOT BREAK THY FEMUR! IT AIN'T A GOOD IDEA.
My good old bones took a shock, going down like that.
BAD SIGN #1. SEEING STARS
BAD SIGN #2. NO FEELING IN A LIMB. NOTHING. LIKE DEAD.
BAD SIGN #3. NAUSEA.
The screaming I can't account for but I know I did scream significantly because my terrified Guide Dog is not by my side: she ran to a place above. I saw her up above the slab with what vision I have remaining. (It's a mixed blessing to be always maintaining a head space that keeps you busy.)
Usually I like busy but what was keeping me busy just then was every one of those BAD SIGNS I mentioned.
All Not Good. UH, UH. NO.
David Tollas asks, Do I need an ambulance? Thinking an ambulance has to come from Prescott, No, I say. Just get me to a hospital.
Getting wheelchaired me into a truck not possible but by the grace of heaven Paul Vigne appears in a sedan. I am maneuvered onto the back seat, crosswise to the front and rear. At the ER door of Yavapai Hospital, magic people appear to spirit me with my leg on that padded board you see in the photo, onto a gurney.
Magic people pop a needle in my left arm so that life-mindful pain-management IV drips reach my bloodstream immediately. Immediately.
I am so secure I actually am able to breathe normally again. It goes like this: INHALE. EXHALE. REPEAT.
INHALE. EXHALE. REPEAT. TAKE NOTHING FOR GRANTED. REPEAT. INHALE. EXHALE. INHALE. EXHALE...
O thank You, Energizer of the blessed merciful Universe!
What You Know from firsthand experience can kill your pain only if your Will allows it to. So: May you never need to learn this lesson first-hand:
When nothing less will suffice, morphine is the drug of choice.
Yes, that's what I said: Morphine. No "high" whatsoever but once again you are able to keep breathing as if - almost as if - it was quite natural to do that.
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe In. Breathe Out. As if it were a normal, perfectly natural, simple act to do that.
The gurney was wheeled into a hospital room, subdued me was relocated onto a bed. Clean sheets over the supportive flat surface of a rigid mattress fitted out with devices to raise and lower, bend in the middle and at both ends. It can even weigh the occupant., that bed.
Catheter tube carefully tucked out of the way. A stolid, safe environment, people speaking calmly, reassuringly about surgery. Yes, I heard them say, there is a surgeon in Prescott who does lower limbs, they won't have to ship me to Phoenix.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, what flew at me was an incontrovertible truth: how incredible is my good fortune to be gifted with all of this. All I could think of was the report I'd heard about Haiti after its brutal decimation by hurricane, when Doctors Without Borders <http://www.msf.org/> had to operate without sufficient anesthesia, and I let fly, in a declamatory Voice that would brook no argument:
WE SENT TROOPS INTO AFGHANISTAN, WE DIDN'T BUY UP THE OPIUM CROP, CONVERT IT INTO MEDICAL MORPHINE, DONATE IT TO DOCTORS WITHOUT BORDERS? HOW DARE WE NOT! WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS THE MATTER WITH US?
Well, No, we did not. The troops went in, the crop was supposedly burned but somehow now there is a supply of heroin on the streets of America's towns and cities as there has not been since - guess when?
How green can a country get when all that it burns - and it burns a lot - puts smoke in front of most of its mirrors?