Don't Slip And Fall

It was late February and sunny, with a temperature about fifteen degrees, as good a day as you could ask for to be outside. "I'm going for my walk," I told Eve, "I'll be back in half an hour."

            "Don't slip and fall," my wife called back.

            She was in the kitchen stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup. It smelled good enough to keep me inside. Almost. I'm a little compulsive on some things and my late morning walk in the winter is one of them. "I'll be careful."

            "It just snowed, you know. You usually fall at least two or three times a year and haven't yet, so you're due. Watch yourself."

            Snowfall had been intermittent this winter, so walking had been fairly easy. I opened the door to a blast of cold air, "I will," I said, stepping outside. "Besides, it's only a dusting," I added, shutting the door quickly before she could caution me again. Hell, I was sixty-five and certainly old enough to know what I was doing.

            Well, sort of. First off, it was more than a dusting, closer to an inch, so I made myself walk cautiously as I started out. Even so, I'd slipped once or twice by the time I'd reached the end of the driveway. At least I hadn't fallen. Man, I really did need to be careful. I turned right and made my way down our quiet street, snow crunching underfoot, glad for my warm jacket, insulated boots, heavy mittens and wool cap. My wife's words echoed like a bad mantra in my head, 'Don't slip and fall. Don't slip and fall.' It was hugely irritating, made even more so by the fact she was right, I usually did slip and fall two or three times a year. So I took it as a challenge. No slipping and falling. Not today.

            Except I did.

            I was rounding the corner at the end of the block, thinking about not slipping, when I stepped on clean patch of snow. Underneath there must have been a smooth sheet of ice because all of a sudden my feet shot out from under me and I fell backwards, completely air born. For a moment I hung suspended in space. I should have used that time to prepare myself to cushion my backside when I hit the ground, but didn't. What I thought, as I reached the top of the arc and began plummeting toward earth, was this: Damn it. She was right again.

            I smacked my head hard on the pavement. I wasn't knocked out but, instead, ended up laying slightly stunned on the snowy street. A neighbor saw the whole thing and called Eve who drove over to get me. Then she hurried me to the clinic to get me checked out before taking me home.

            She got me situated on the couch with a steaming bowl of her chicken noodle soup before sitting next to me. "I'm glad the doctor told us you're going to be all right, Rick." She said, gently touching my head. "But, I worry about you so much. I understand that you like your winter walks, I just don't want you to hurt yourself." She paused, then added, "I just wish you'd be more careful and maybe stay inside when the weather's bad." She gave me a quick, wifely kiss on the forehead. It felt wonderful.

            I savored the soup thinking that of course her words made sense. We'd been married for forty-two years, and one thing I knew for a certainty was that everything my wife did or said made sense. I should have known that fact by now but apparently was too mule-headed to accept it.

            I'm sure there was resignation all over my voice when I said, "Yeah, I know what you're saying, Eve. I'll think about it." I finished my soup, then closed my eyes, suddenly very tired. I knew what she was saying, but, still, it didn't change the fact that some habits were hard to change. My winter walk, apparently, was one of them.

            Eve took the empty bowl and stood up. She patted my arm affectionately and said, "You do that. In the meantime, I'll go wash this out. You rest. We'll have some more later for dinner. Okay?" She went into the kitchen after tucking a thick quilt around my legs to keep me warm.

            I awoke an hour later and looked out the window. Snow was falling steadily and the afternoon light was fading from the sky. I watched the flurries swirl as the wind picked up. My guess was that the temperature was getting colder and I wondered if maybe I should skip my walk tomorrow. Like Eve had said, I usually fell two or three times a year. Today's fall was my first and simple math told me that I was due for one or two more. Next time could I get seriously hurt. Tomorrow I should stay inside, take it easy and baby that bump on my head. A wise man would do that, right? Well, no one ever accused me of being wise. Just ask Eve.

            I watched the snow some more and the more I did the more enticing it looked. The cold air would be invigorating and it'd be nice to be outside in it. Besides, I had to make up for missing most of my walk today. Sounded good to me. Decision made. I'd go for my walk. But there was one thing for sure; tomorrow when I was out walking, I really would be careful. For most people, it was just a little thing, but for me it wasn't. After all these years, with Eve being right all those times, all I wanted was to prove to her that I could do it. Tomorrow I'd make sure to not slip and fall.

            Just like I'd tried to do today.                      

The Sweeper

If Will Stevens cared what other people thought or even took the time to think about it, he'd probably figure that people would think he was nuts, spending his days sweeping the sidewalks of the little town he lived in. But he really didn't care about what the residents of Long Lake thought about him at all. He couldn't help what he did, he just did it. They should walk a mile in his shoes, was what he'd say, no pun intended, if any one asked. But they never did. They left him alone, and that was just fine with him.

            It all started a few weeks after his dear twin sister died, this sweeping compulsion. It just seemed like the right thing to do. After all, she liked to keep her room neat and tidy. Even when they were barely in kindergarten, it was little Sally who would have to straighten up her toys and dolls and clothes before they left for school. Will? Well, to put it mildly, he never was one for neatness. Not until she died, anyway.

            Oh, they were close, those twins were, everyone said so, even though Will was sometimes taken out of Mrs. Peterson's first grade class to have some "Extra help." It didn't bother Will or Sally that they were sometimes separated because there was something between them, something special. You see, their mother had died giving birth to them. In fact, she'd died moments after Sally was born. Will had to be surgically removed and seemed to struggle from the beginning, but he never had to worry about being alone. His sister was by his side from day one, and they lived their short life not just as siblings but as best of friends.

            Throughout grade school, Will fell a little further behind every year. "It's a learning disability," was what the professionals said, but that was okay with Will and Sally. Long Lake Elementary was close enough for them to walk, so they could be together and talk on the way to school, and they could catch up on the events of their school day as they walked home. And, a few years later, into junior high and high school, when boys became interested in Sally, and she in them, she still made time to be with Will: talking, watching television together and playing the latest video games, or going on weekend trips to the mall or to movies.

            They were as inseparable as could be, and if Sally's life was fuller than Will's, well, that was alright with him. He liked to read. He liked to build model airplanes. He liked to watch birds. All solitary activities which suited him just fine.

            So when seventeen year old Sally and her date were killed in an automobile accident out on country road six that summer, and his dad told him a few weeks after the funeral to clean out his sister's room, he did. He roused himself from his malaise, grabbed a broom and swept it. When he was finished, he did his room. Then he swept the stairs down to the first floor, and then he did the living room, the kitchen, his dad's bedroom and the bathroom and the spare bedroom. Then he swept the basement.

            When he was done with the house, he moved outside and he swept the brick walkway and the driveway. He didn't stop there. He swept the sidewalk to the corner, and then the next sidewalk and the next sidewalk, and he just kept on sweeping until it was dark and he was exhausted. Then he went home.

            He walked in the back door into the kitchen to the aroma of dinner cooking and set his broom against the wall. His father looked up from where he stood at the stove and asked, "What have you been doing, Will?"

            Will looked at the worn and withdrawn man who was his dad, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Sweeping."

            His dad looked at him for a long moment and then said, "Well, you must be tired. I've got dinner ready. Meatloaf. Why don't you go sit down? Let's eat."

            So they had dinner and then Will went to bed. His dad didn't seem to mind that his son had spend most of the day sweeping. He had his own problems.

            The next day Will got up, fixed a bowl of cheerios for breakfast, and walked over to Leaf Street where he'd left off the day before and started sweeping again. He spent the entire day at his self appointed job, and, while he swept, he spent every moment thinking about Sally: how they would play together when they were young and talk to each other as they got older and what great times they had together; how much he missed her; and how, now that she was gone, the only time he could be with her was when he was sweeping, reliving all those times with his sister; all those good times when they were together.

That was twelve years ago, and Will is still at it, sweeping the town he and Sally grew up in; summer, fall, winter and spring. He still lives with his father and he only stops his work to eat and sleep. But not for long, because he's soon compelled to start again. After Sally was killed he had sunk in a depression so deep and numbing if seemed as though he might never recover. He was lost. But that was before he started sweeping. It was only when he picked up his broom that he found himself, and when he found himself, he found Sally. When he's sweeping his memories of his sister are clearest; she's still with him and he is not alone.

            But he does have one all encompassing fear and it is this: What happens if he stops sweeping and her memory fades? What if his memory of Sally goes away? He can't have that. She was the most important person in his life, and she still is. If her memory leaves him, then what will he have? Nothing. So he keeps sweeping, day in and day out, remembering Sally. They are together, then, and life is as it should be. It's the only way he can cope with the agony of her loss. He is both sad she is dead and happy he has found a way to keep her with him. He has his life's work cut out for him. He's a sweeper. There are a lot of sidewalks in his town, and with Sally by his side, he doesn't think he'll ever stop.