MARGARET AND ME Everything changed in the twinkling of an eye. One minute I’m one of the most active, energetic people you will ever meet. Then because of a freak accident I am a prisoner in my own home. My day consists of moving from the bed then moving to the sofa. Maybe if I am feeling well enough, I will actually move once or twice a day. What happened? The telephone rang. I stood up, at only the velocity I am capable of springing forward. The heel of my left foot catches between the sofa and the floor. I am down, a veritable cripple. It’s the very accident that they shot horses for—the ankle is either fractured or the Achilles tendon is ruptured. I am down, I am out and it will be weeks before my life returns to anything I would consider remotely normal. The new norm is a foot boot to the knee and crutches. I cannot even drive my car anywhere. Stranger things have never happened… That was the first 24 hours. By that time I have absolutely worked the nerves of everyone that loves me. How do you take a bee and place it in a cage? How does someone completely independent in thought and spirit learn to ask others for assistance? It is a complete cluster situation. My husband says it is time I wrote that book I had always thought about writing, or I was going to drive myself crazy. We all know what that means. He was politely saying I was driving him crazy! Later that evening my sweet mother calls. During our conversation she poses the question…”Do you know you only live a few blocks from where Margaret Mitchell wrote Gone With The Wind?” Mothers are always right. I had completely forgotten that Margaret’s apartment, The Dump, as she called it, really was just down Peachtree Street from the new condo Husband and I had just moved into…a cramped one bedroom unit that I will now affectionately name The New Dump. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no delusions of writing greatness. I am bored and looking for something to do when I am not working! Oh, by the way, I am in sales-- as long as I have a phone and email, I am quite literally in business. So, in the quest to alleviate boredom, first I research Gone With The Wind. Neither could I write anything that is close to 1000 pages, has that many characters nor could I possibly sit still long enough to write in that detail! My Scarlett would have to be named Blondie. I do have to acknowledge that Scarlett and I have one thing in common—I love Atlanta. No one has been happier than me to leave the farm and move to Atlanta, since Scarlett left Tara. Ashley Wilkes? I think not. I cannot abide men that are cowards, no matter what their pedigree is. Rhett Butler? Let’s name him Ret Tago. Now that’s the kind of man I can appreciate. He is afraid of nothing and he is smart enough to mastermind and accomplish anything he wants to pursue. Now we have Blondie and Ret. No, this American Masterpiece just is not falling into place—pun intended. Since the Gone With The Wind puzzle is not working I decide to research Margaret Mitchell. Hmmmm. Funny how Margaret actually did live down the street. The research gets more interesting when I discover Margaret was a tomboy as a child. Just like me. Margaret wrote plays and musicals as a child and first rehearsed her works on her pets, then on her brothers and cousins. Again, just like me. Margaret’s mother was into causes and passionately worked for the rights of others. Just like Mother and me. One of Margaret’s favorite stories was how her mother was making an impassioned speech supporting women’s rights. Margaret, at 10 years of age, sat on the stage during her mother’s speech and threw kisses to all the men in the audience. This story made my mother laugh because she said it sounded just like me as a child! Margaret went to private schools, wrote for the school papers, was involved in the Drama Club, worked on the yearbook…this just gets “…curiouser and curiouser…” Then, after she graduates, she writes feature articles, book reviews--she wrote for any one that would publish her works. She called herself an “unscrupulous flirt”, had lots of fun, and ended up happily married. Then, she had…an ankle injury. This is a true story! Her husband asked her to write a book because she couldn’t do anything else. (Apparently she was driving him crazy.) We all know what happened next. The entire world knows what happened next. She wrote the Great American Novel which became one of the biggest movies of all time and Margaret made herself a legend and an icon of American History. Where’s a pen? Where’s a notepad? Where’s my computer? Oh Great Spirit of the Writing Gods, if you grant me one wish, please let me channel Margaret Mitchell and write one book that will become the Great American Novel! Then, let me get run over by a car on Peachtree Street and die before I have to turn 50 years old! Just like Margaret did! That’s the final synchronicity; Margaret Mitchell was hit by a car at the corner of Peachtree and 13th in Atlanta. One guess where Husband and I currently live and one guess only. Oh, one last thing, if I ever do write that book, I have the title in mind as well as the last line of the book. Yep, you got it, just like Margaret did when she wrote her book. But I won’t think about that today. Guess I’ll think about that tomorrow.