My goal last winter was to stay vertical.
Scraping a windshield; hunkered over an ice dam with my chop, chop, chop; or bent with shovel; upright is the state I prefer. It’s lovelier to greet spring nose to lilac, not feet to lilac.
But then people in my family don’t fall. We’re careful, upright people. None of my grandparents broke bones. Neither of my parents ever broke a bone. Not one of us five kids ever had a broken bone—and it wasn’t for lack of trying.
So It never occurred to me that I might break something last fall when a fully loaded wheelbarrow got away from me on a steep slope in my backyard. And so it never occurred to me to let go. I hung on tight and got dragged over fresh tilled earth—startled by the closeness of my nose to ground. And then came the drop.
Three feet. While airborne, the contents of the wheelbarrow, manure, that is, must have separated from the wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow went down. The manure went up. I went down, and then the manure went down. I think that was the chronology. It’s hard to remember the chronology when you’ve just broken the gravity barrier. The wheelbarrow hit with a hollow clang, which I realized, as manure rained down on me, was because it was now empty. I sat breathless, bordered by manure.
Now my back yard is private, very private, but the first thing I did was look to see if anyone had seen me. Pride can take a real beating when your flawless record is flawed. I sat there stunned. I landed on my fanny, which divine wisdom has amply padded. I started to move body parts carefully. I unfolded my left leg, which was turned in and under my right leg. I took my right arm and cradled it in my left arm. I moved all the fingers on my left hand. Everything seemed to work. I examined my arms and fingers and legs and feet like a newborn discovering them for the first time. I took a deep breath and slowly got up. Just the act of rising from the ground was confounding. But my wobbly legs supported me.
Still shaken, I shared my fall with my friend Linda, who said she lived accident-free until a certain age. Then she became clumsy. Her theory: “Estrogen keeps you upright and accident-free.”
But then there’s my mother. She still climbs a ladder to paint the peak of her house at age 75. My friends are afraid for me. Afraid of the call from the emergency room that goes like this: “Your mother is here. A neighbor found her dangling from a ladder still holding her paint brush.”
So next time I’ll either enjoy the ride or let go. I’ll probably let go. Then again, maybe my mother has the right idea: go out with a bang, not a whimper.