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.

The Rabbit Freezes

This seventy-five word story was posted September 24, 2018 by Richard at Paragraph Planet.

The rabbit freezes. I raise my rifle and sight. Our eyes lock. It stares back, seeming to dare me to blow it away. You asked for it. I start to squeeze the trigger. Next to me my son says, "Go for it Dad, kill the bastard." Just then I catch a lively twinkle of light in the rabbit's eye and it softly blinks. I lower the gun to my side and whisper, "Let's go inside."

What Grandma Said

The last time I saw my Grandmother Sara I'd wheeled her down to the community room of Meridian Way, the retirement home where she'd been living for the last year and a half.

            "Is this okay?" I asked, setting the brake, "Are we close enough to the window?"

            Grandma smiled, sat forward looking out over the skyline of Minneapolis and said, "It's fine, Ethan, just perfect."

            "Would you like something to drink?" I indicated the refreshment area on the far wall, "Some tea, maybe?"

            "A glass of water would be nice, sweetheart. Just a small one."

            It may sound like a simple thing, but I liked that Grandma always told the truth. It was a way of life for her. If you asked her about anything: are you hungry, tired or thirsty, for example, or her opinion on politics or religion, she'd always be honest with you. In my experience, most people weren't as forthcoming. Not Grandma Sara, she always told the truth. It was refreshing.

            "I'll be right back. Don't do go anywhere."

            She laughed at my lame joke, "Don't worry, I'm perfectly happy right here."

            My earliest memory of her was when I was four years old. Mom dropped me off a lot back then when she went out on one of her ever increasingly frequent dates. I loved being with Grandma. We were snuggled on the couch, and I had my sleepy head resting in her lap, wrapped up in a shawl she'd knit. We were watching television, one of the courtroom dramas she loved so much. I remember the guy on the witness stand being approached by a solemn looking man holding a bible and being asked to 'Tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.'

            I roused myself and sat up, "What's that mean, Grandma?"

            "It means to never lie, Ethan. Always tell the truth."

            "Always?"

            "Yes, always."

            It was my first life lesson from Grandma, and one that always has stayed with me.

            She was a seamstress and worked for Lea's Creations, a dress shop just off Nicolett Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. Grandpa Ernie had been killed in World War II on D-Day and she lived in the bungalow they'd purchased in northeast Minneapolis just before he'd enlisted. She didn't drive and took the bus back and forth to work. After mom left for good, Grandma took over the task of raising me and it was probably a good thing, too.

            Once I was caught stealing a pack of gum with my friends Eddie and JK. They took off running and got away. I wasn't so lucky. The store manager, a huge, hairy man with bushy eyebrows, caught me by the collar of my tee-shirt and made me sit in the back room while he called Grandma.

            "You've got yourself a career criminal in the making here, Mrs. Stevenson. Make no doubt about it."

            I was seven years old and terrified. Grandma left work and took the bus to the store. We walked home without saying a word, me becoming more and more frightened with each step.

            We walked in through the back door sat at the kitchen table. She looked me in the eye, her voice full of sadness, "Ethan, why did you do such a terrible thing? You just about broke my heart, stealing somebody else's gum for pity sakes. Haven't I raised you to be better than that?"

            I felt horrible. It was plain that I'd disappointed her and let her down. "It wasn't just me, Grandma. Eddie and JK were there, too, but when Mr. Jensen asked who else was there I told him it was just me."

            "So you lied?"

            "No. Well, yes," I said, tears suddenly flowing. I'd not only nearly broken her heart but also lied, a big "No no" in Grandma's book.

            "So you didn't tell on them?"

            "No."

            Grandma sat back and thought for a minute before saying, "Well, then, good. That's a good thing."

            "What do you mean? I thought I wasn't supposed to lie."

            She surprised me by suddenly reaching over and hugging me. "No, you shouldn't lie, but you need to do right by your friends, too. Sometimes it's okay to lie a little like you did. It's called a white lie."

            I didn't realize that life could be so complicated, but Grandma dedicated herself to helping me navigate my way through it.

            That last day together her heart was worn out, weakened by a series of mini-strokes, but her mind was sill sharp. We'd stayed close our entire lives. I helped her choose Meridian Way, helped her move in, and visited at least every other day. She was the only family I had next to my wife and three kids.

            One of things she told me that last day was how much she loved raising me.

            "You were like a son to me, Ethan. The son I never had."

            What could I say? I gave her a heartfelt hug and she hugged me back, both of us making the most of our time together. I'm glad that we did. She passed away during that night due to a massive stroke. I was told she didn't feel a thing.

            And that thing about lying? Well, just before I left her that last day she asked if I ever regretted not having my birth mom around in my life.

            "Were you okay with this old lady being your mother?" she asked.

            I looked at her, this self-sacrificing woman who was the most wonderful person I'd ever known, and said, "Well, Grandma, I have to be honest here," and I paused for effect, a long, pregnant moment, before grinning and saying, "You were the best thing that ever happened to me."

            "You wouldn't lie," she asked, joking.

            "Never," I said.

            I remember that she smiled, then, and I did too. I couldn't have asked for more from her. And that's the truth.

           

                       

Yellowjackets

It was Field Day, the last day of school for the Long Lake 5th graders. I was looking forward to tomorrow: no kids, no schedules, no rules to enforce. No nothing. I was also looking forward to a summer of alone time - my idea of heaven.

            I was standing on the sidelines, monitoring a soccer game between my class and the other fifth grade class, Mrs. Elbert's, and talking to Edith Silverstein, the oldest teacher at the school. She was a sixty-five year old sprite of a woman who taught first grade; had been for nearly forty years. Lots of people thought she should retire. Not me. She was a witty lady with a great sense of humor who had a firm but kind way children. I liked her a lot.

            "What are you planning on doing with your summer, Ed?" she asked, watching all ten kids on the field run after the soccer ball.

            "Oh, not much. Just hang around. You know."

            She bristled in response like I'd just poked her with a sharp stick, "No I don't know, Ed. You should do something other than 'hang around,' she said using finger quotes to poke fun at me. Then she shook her head to indicate her semi-serious disappointment. "Me, I'm going on a month long cruise to Alaska with my friends, Maggie and Becky. I can't wait." She gave me a look like, 'Get with the program buddy and do something interesting with your life.' A sentiment that made perfect sense, especially after what was about to happen.

            I'm forty-five, a bit of a loner and have been single my entire adult life. I live with my big tabby cat, Toby, in a tiny apartment a mile from the school; close enough to walk or ride my bicycle. Long Lake is small town located on the edge of undeveloped farm fields and woodlands twenty miles west of Minneapolis. I've taught fifth grade Life Science in the local grade school for the last twenty-one years. Though I'm withdrawn by nature, I love teaching, it's just that it takes a lot out of me. I treasure my time to myself, but understood what Edith was getting at. I also valued her opinion. When I really thought about it, at my age, maybe I really did need to get a hobby other than the only one I had, collecting old marbles off eBay.

            Anyway, her analysis of my life notwithstanding, we'd been having a nice, friendly conversation, when, from the far end of the soccer pitch we heard screams from the kids. "Shit," I said to Edith.

            She looked at me and yelled, "Go," and I did. I took off running wondering what the hell had happened.

            It soon became apparent. Both fifth grade classes were standing where the soccer field met the woods. There were yelling as I ran up. Some were even crying.

            Johnny Leibert, one of my prized students met me, "Mr. Mack, Mr. Mack. Jenny's getting attacked by bees. I think they're going to kill her."

            The Jenny he was referring to was Jenny Goldenstein, a ten year old tiny waif of a girl, prone to hives and every other  kind of skin problem you could name. She was also the unluckiest kid I ever knew. Last year she kindly brought her teacher a handpicked bouquet of flowers, including a sprig of poison ivy. She was covered in calamine lotion for nearly a month. If anyone was going to be attacked by bees, it was bound to be her.

            I ran to the edge of the woods watching as Jenny frantically waved the attacking swarm away from her head. I could see in an instant that they weren't your common garden variety of non-dangerous honey bees or anything like that. No. These were yellow jackets, one of nature's most vicious insects. They could do serious damage by stinging you multiple times. And those stingers hurt. I'd read once that they felt like needles pushing deep into your skin. My heart went out the little girl and I didn't stop to think. I ran in to rescue her.

            "Jenny, Jenny," I called, "Don't worry, I'm coming."

            She turned, tears in her eyes, those friggin' yellow jackets all over her. "Help," she called except it wasn't as much a call as it was more of a whisper. She was really frightened. Terrified. Poor little kid.

            I grabbed her and swung her in a circle a few times to try to shake some of the yellow jackets off. As I did, I could see what had happened. A soccer ball lay next to a log rotting on the forest floor. The kids must have kicked the ball into the woods and Jenny had run in after it. The ball had hit the log and by the time she got there, she was met with the wrath of what seemed like hundreds upon hundreds of raging, swarming bees.

            I turned with her and we fought our way to the edge of the woods, me yelling at the rest of the kids, "Get the hell out of here. The bees are coming." They ran and I did, too, all the way back to the school. In a few minutes we were all safe.

            Fast forward to two hours later. It turned out that Jenny was fine, just a little swollen from the bee stings. She had eleven of them, poor kid. Me? I ended in the hospital - the Hennepin County Medical Center. I guess I had developed an allergy to bee stings over the course of my adult years, unbeknownst to me. Who would have thought it? Certainly not yours truly. I was stung twenty-seven times! But it turned out to be a good thing in the long run even though I was told by the doctors and nurses time and time again that I'd almost died from anaphylactic shock. Let me tell you, that was one sobering thought.

            I stayed in the hospital for three days. During my recover I had a chance to think about what Edith had said to me on the soccer field. Specifically, I had time to think about my life. I came to the conclusion that I really did need to get my act together. I need to expand my horizons.

            To that end, I accepted an offer Edith made while I was recovering to join her and her friends on the Alaskan Cruise. It might sound weird, me, a guy in his forties going on a cruise ship with three ladies in their sixties, who, by the way, called themselves, "The Girls," but I don't care. I'm looking forward to it.

            When I accepted the invitation Edith said, "It'll be nice to have you along, just as long as you don't cramp our style."

            "Funny," I told her, playing along, "I'll try not to."

            She just grinned and pulled out a map to show me the route. It looks like it'll be a riot. We're leaving the first week in July.

            You know, when you almost die, like I did, it gets you thinking. I won't bore you with all the details, but I will tell you this: If it wasn't for those damn yellow jackets, I might have ended up spending the summer hunkered down in my tiny apartment with my cat, searching the web for old marbles. When I think of it that way, I shudder. I was on path where I could have easily spent the rest of my life doing just that. What a waste. I've got a lot to learn. It's a big world out there. I'm looking forward to seeing it. Alaska, here I come.