My husband, Paul, and I set out early one recent frosty morn to get one of our chickens out of the coop. Hope has a spur on her right leg. This is a growth that all roosters have, but some hens develop them too. Hope’s spur is curved, and we have been filing it down because if it gets too close to her leg, there could be complications.
In the warmer months, we can easily cajole Hope and her sister, Nellie, to come out of their abode. All we have to do is open a long, narrow door at the bottom of the coop. They will come running out, looking forward to a chance to free-range.
Once the hens are outside, I grab Hope, give her to Paul, and get out my file. Not a nail file. A file from the hardware store.
The sub-zero temperatures we’ve been experiencing, not mention the snow that is covering the ground, made Plan A impossible. So we came up with Plan B. We would go out first thing in the morning and snatch Hope off the roost before she even had a chance to get down.
This we accomplished. We had decided to bring her into the house temporarily, because of the cold. We were thinking of both her and us. We would bring her into the six-year-old room we are still calling the addition—a family room would be the best description. This room is off the kitchen, and we can close the door between the two. This would ensure that no dogs or cats could interrupt our procedure.
The addition is lower than the rest of the house, to which it is connected by a wide landing and two stairs. I carried Hope inside from the coop, but once we arrived in the house, I handed her off to Paul. Our intent was to file her spur on the landing, but the light proved too dim. “Should we go down?” Paul asked.
“Sure,” I replied. As I headed down the steps, I felt myself sliding. I ended up flat on my back, and whacked my head on the bottom step.
I’d forgotten I was wearing ice grippers on my boots. The Waterhog Floor Mat on the landing had prevented me from sliding, but once I hit the hardwood—whoosh.
After lying stunned for a few seconds, I pushed my boots off and got up. I hadn’t suffered any major damage, though I was sure I’d be sore the next day.
This is not the first time I’ve fallen down stairs. The first incident happened when I was two or three. I don’t remember it, but my mother told me the story many times.
We were at my grandparents’ house. My father and grandfather went down cellar, leaving the door to the kitchen open behind them. My grandmother was at the kitchen counter doing something, so she was facing the wall. The phone rang. My mother went to answer it.
I decided to take this opportunity to go downstairs. I got on all fours and proceeded down backwards. Thus, I did not notice that the stairs made a sharp right angle about halfway down. I tumbled the rest of the way.
I’m sure that would have been scary enough for my family, but I was also bleeding from my mouth. Someone called the doctor—you could do that in those days—and he suggested that they look in my mouth to see if I had broken a tooth. They did and found that I had actually bitten the inside of my cheek as I fell. That’s where the blood was coming from.
I had a scar on the inside of my cheek for many years—into my 20s, anyway. But it’s gone now. Sometimes I reflexively run my tongue over the area, searching for it, but it’s just a memory.
My second fall happened when I was in college. I was at the library, on the second floor, furiously studying for a test. When it was time to go to class, I headed down the stairway, still glancing at my notes. Big mistake. I fell down at least half the flight. The stairs were hard and thick. I believe they were granite.
No one was around. I lifted my head and realized I was bleeding. I found my roommate and her boyfriend and asked if they could take me to the hospital. It was only a few blocks away.
I had to have five stitches, but at least I didn’t have a concussion. One hardship, especially for a college student, was that I couldn’t wash my hair until the stitches came out. It’s a good thing wearing bandanas on your head was in fashion back then.
I’m not always to blame when my head makes contact with hard surfaces. My mother told me that when I was about a year old, an older child picked me up and dropped me. I hit my head.
A few years ago, at work, I went out to walk during my lunchtime. It was winter, but the walkways were clear. Except for this one spot. Down I went. Hit my head. That time I did feel woozy.
I had to file an accident report. I was told to go to Workplace Health. I didn’t have a concussion. However, a couple of days later I noticed my wrist was swollen. Back I wentIt seems to be the case that, aside from my baby incidents, I should pay more attention to what I’m doing. My mother always claimed I fell down the library steps because I was wearing clogs at the time. I disagreed.
I am pleased by the fact that I have never broken a bone, and hope to keep it that way. It looks like I may have a hard head, but that wouldn’t surprise too many people.
It’s been quite a winter already. Stay safe out there. And if you put your ice grippers on, remember to take them off as soon as you go into the house. Or before.
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