Колумнист из Бэнда описывает летнюю раздражительность из-за перелома ребер и проблем с городским укладом

For injured Bend columnist, there ain’t no cure for the summertime blue jays Published 12:30 pm Wednesday, August 12, 2026 With hot days, smoky skies and a fractured rib hampering my usual escapes from reality, your normally friendly neighborhood Dropping In columnist is starting to get cranky. My wife might say, “Starting to?” but for purposes of this column, let’s just take my word for it. The fall on my ribs I took while skateboarding in late July still has me looking like a beetle on its back when I try to get out of bed in the morning. It’s not just affecting my core strength, but something at the core of me. Along with rib fractures, here are some other things giving me late-summer grumpiness. Sneezing. If you’ve never fractured a rib, you would never guess it, but the pain that comes from a sneeze is nearly unbearable. The urge to sneeze hits me about once a day if I’m lucky, but when the AQI starts hitting triple digits, my head’s attempts to forcefully blast my sinuses out of my face also shoot up. There’s little you can do about it except clutch a pillow to your ribs and hope for the best. I sneezed/groaned so weirdly the other morning that my wife came downstairs to check on me. Jays. Yes, jays as in birds. For years I’ve tolerated the shrill-screaming scrub jays that love my backyard and have even nested there. They’ve enjoyed free, all-they-can-eat access to serviceberries and currants. This year, the noisy, winged miscreants discovered our prized raspberries, gorging on them as if gluttony weren’t a deadly sin. They got lots of fiber, and paid us by bedazzling our deck furniture. Their aim is deadly, too. Bonus mention to the Canada jay that landed on my head at Quinn Creek. After eating a picnic I refused to share with the lurking birds, I dozed off on my right side, the one that doesn’t hurt, for 3 minutes before I awoke feeling something on my forehead. As I opened my eyes, I heard fluttering wings and saw my assailant return to its nearby perch. It’s a rare treat to doze off outside, and this jerky jay woke me up instantly. I sat up to see my wife watching a bird of prey high in the sky. As she pointed at it, yes, a jay, maybe the same one, landed on her finger. Hair. Bald people get all the love, but the plight of we the poofy-haired should garner some sympathy, too. My hair is reasonable when short, and mostly behaves itself when long. In between those stages, a big-haired purgatory my wife and I call “the awkward stage.” Said awkward stage can last three or four months, during which time I’m 2 or 3 inches taller due to hair. (No, I am not putting product in it.) Low branches. The one thing I’ve been able to do even with a rib injury is walk. And walking in my neighborhood means encounters with tree branches. Owners of homes: You are not desecrating a sacred tree if you cut a branch blocking adjacent sidewalk, nor are you suddenly living in a natural state of being by not trimming it. Sidewalks are for walking and rolling in wheelchairs. Don’t take my word for it. Take the City of Bend’s. Per municipal code 3.30.040, “Property owners shall trim vegetation on their property so that it does not extend into the area above any public sidewalk from the surface of the sidewalk to a point eight feet above the sidewalk level.” Slow-walking man. You’d think my sympathies would be with any other pedestrian, but this 30- or 40-something guy walks like he has a sunburn on his soles. I first saw him licking an ice cream cone as he moseyed through the crosswalk, a roundabout at Murphy and Parrell roads. That’s a pretty busy stretch of road for walking like movement is going to melt. A few days later, as I was driving out of my neighborhood, he crossed in front of our minivan, his stride still egregiously slow. Even having the right of way on foot in a crosswalk, I tend to perk up if a car is waiting, I guess to show my enthusiasm for not being flattened. But not slow-walking man. As we rolled to a stop, the sun behind us, the van’s shadow inched across his path. His eyes remained locked on the cellphone he held, as though he were deciphering the densest of prose. The windows safely rolled up, Lucy, my daughter in the passenger seat, and I exchanged not-flattering words about him. As he completed his tortoise-paced journey across the street, he turned his head and gave us a look that could freeze hot water. Once we were safely driving on, I told Lucy, “He should be in Spain,” where she just spent eight months living among its slow-striding pedestrians. As busy Americans, we’re hardwired to move fast. I can’t even tell you why. I should take a cue from the Spanish, and this fella, and slow down and relax while my rib is recovering. Let the jays build a nest in my poofy hair as I try not to sneeze.