I fell on the ice the other day. One minute, I was carefully picking my way along the slippery trail, and the next minute, whoosh, I was down. I didn’t hurt anything but my dignity. There I was, down on the ice like a beetle on its back with no traction to get back up. Lucky for me, there was a witness to my downfall. I hadn’t seen anyone on the trail up to that point, but all of a sudden, a woman with two dogs hustled up to me and reached down to help me up. She made sure I was okay before striding off down the trail as if she’d never heard of ice. By the time I reached the trailhead, she and the dogs had disappeared without a trace. Maybe she was an angel sent to save me from the perils of inadequate footwear on an icy Juneau afternoon.
I still remember that notable time when I fell on the ice in college. I grew up in Florida, so freezing temperatures and lake-effect snow in Ohio was a novelty to me. So much to learn! If you hop out of the shower and head outside in sub-zero temperature, your wet hair really will freeze and break off. If you pack a snowball wearing little knit gloves, your hands are going to get cold. If you put your cold hands in your pockets to warm them up while you’re walking down the sidewalk on your way downtown to the movies, you’ve got nothing to break your fall when you slip on a patch of ice.
Whoosh, I went down. With my hands out of commission, I hit my head on the pavement. You know how, in cartoons, the villain sees stars when an anvil crashes down on his head? Yep, I saw stars. My friends helped me up and we continued on to the movie theater. My brain was addled — when they carded me at the door of the small-town theater for fear that minors would be corrupted by the R-rated movie, I couldn’t find my ID. Of course, it was in my wallet like it always was. Oh, I had such a headache. Unlucky for me, the movie was “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” that interactive cult film which requires audiences to yell responses to the screen throughout the entire movie. This midwestern crowd leaned into the yelling with gusto. My college roommate sat next to me, enthusiastically hollering at the top of her lungs from the end of the trailers to the rolling of the credits. My poor head was pounding. The whole slip-and-fall experience was humiliating.
Why is it so embarrassing to fall down? Toddlers do it all the time, and they’re not shy about reaching up their arms for a big person to help them up. True, they’re closer to the ground than adults are, so the impact isn’t as jarring. It’s just part of that whole learning to walk thing for them.
Know who else falls down a lot? Football players. That’s their actual job. They come to work, do some warmup exercises, and gear up to fall down. But have you noticed — whenever they’re down, they reach up a hand for a teammate to help them up. Every single time. Those strong athletes in the prime of their lives could probably manage to get up on their own, but they don’t. The culture of football includes giving that hand up. If you’re lucky, you might see a player hauling the opposing quarterback to his feet and giving him a friendly pat on the back, as if to say, “Yeah, I’m coming for you next time.” It’s all part of the game: lining up, crashing together, falling down, holding up a hand, getting up, lining up again to take the fall.
Next time I fall on the ice, and there probably will be a next time, I’m going to pretend that I’m a football player and my slip and fall was all part of the game. Yeah, I meant to do that. Now, all I need to do is reach up my hand in the hopes that somebody nearby will help me up.
• Peggy McKee Barnhill is a wife, mother, and author who writes cozy mysteries under the pen name “Greta McKennan.” She likes to look at the bright side of life. Her new book “Death At the Shipshape Bookshop: Southeast Alaska Mysteries, Book 1” is scheduled for release Feb. 11.
