Watch out for black ice!
Or, so my
phone tells me. I try to be careful, but black ice is basically invisible, so
it’s a little difficult. You’d think by now, though, after decades of living
with and around black ice, that perhaps I would know how to behave with it.
This
morning, before the sun has done its job, my front stairs are covered in a
clear coating of icy horror. My son-in-law carries a package from my house, a
box with some loose-leaf notebook paper for my daughter, who is taking some
classes online.
Suddenly, and with a loud exclamation of “Oh, SHIT,” my son-in-law flies down all the ice-covered steps on his butt and back, sending the paper flying.
I hustle to
his rescue, realize he might be hurt, pick up the box of paper so I don’t
pollute the neighborhood with the wind blowing paper everywhere, and run to get
my daughter to help.
That’s when
I hit the patch of black ice in the driveway.
Again the
box of paper catapults through the air as I gracelessly perform the two-step-slip-and-slide.
My legs go to the right and I fall to the left, directly on my hip.
I can’t get
up.
No, I haven’t
busted anything, at least not to my immediate knowledge. I can’t get up because
I am laughing too hard. I cannot believe what it must look like: My son-in-law
sitting on the bottom step rubbing his lower back, and me, flopping around in
the driveway like a fish out of water, notebook paper flipping around between
us.
He is left
with a bruised back and rear-end. I have a bruise on my hip, small cut on my
knee, and road-rash on my left palm. No real harm done between us. However, we
did entertain the neighborhood for a couple of minutes with our ice dancing
fiasco.
