Forget the chickens, don’t count on your steps until you’re there

I had a wee bit of adventure before dawn this morning – and thank heavens I had turned the light on in the garage. I was out there, in the shadows filling up my arms with light, dry wood to start a fire in the basement. I carefully made away around some stuff – and I was being very slow and careful. That kind of describes the way I fell: although I was placing each Emu-booted foot slowly as I progressed with my load of wood, something snagged on a boot and slowly down I went, trying to aim myself toward the side of the car so I could slide to the floor and not just flop.

The wood just arced up and then there was quite a clatter – more than any reindeer hooves made, I’m sure. I don’t know if there was a yell or not; I just remember seeing the side of the car in front of me and then I was looking under it. I knew at once I was not hurt and gratefully started to wonder how far my screams for help would have carried with all doors shut in the cold of the morning. Then I thought about how cold it was there on the concrete and got up and gathered my wood and went on – there was nothing else for it.

The fire is going . . . and I still am too. So I guess I can start counting my blessings . . .