Key Notes

Most of the time, I consider myself a fairly strong, brave person.

At other times, not so much.

I learned I could do many otherwise terrifying things if it involved getting a good story – walking out on a bridge over a flooding river, crawling through a natural cave with only a small light on my hat knowing that snakes could be anywhere, climbing on the roof of a building or onto a tall ladder to get a good picture of the crowd below.

I’ve overcome many fears that way.

For years, driving over bridges made me physically queasy. Walking on one was out of the question.

Growing up in landlocked Kansas with no bodies of water larger than a stock tank, going to the beach consisted of me walking into the water just above my ankles and sitting on the sand.

This summer, I conquered a great deal of fear by snorkeling with my face in the water. Drift diving from the Gulf of Mexico to the Atlantic Ocean (even though it was only a short distance) marked a great accomplishment.

Donning scuba gear and sitting on the bottom of a swimming pool felt like winning an Olympic medal for me.

I could tackle anything now!

Until today, that is.

While sopping up water from a leaking hot tub, I came across a sight that made my stomach do somersaults.

I quickly walked away, mentally calculating my options.

A friend told me if I needed help with something that I just couldn’t do, to call. However, knowing that friend was busy planting wheat for next summer’s crop, it didn’t seem the prudent path to appease my panic.

After stewing about what to do for several minutes, I bravely got a yardstick and an empty plastic grocery bag.

With trepidation, I carefully scooted the dead mouse into the plastic bag, looked the other way while I carried it outside and threw it as hard as I could.

I’m a brave woman, but when it comes to mice, my cowardly legs run away with me!