If falling were an Olympic sport, I’d take gold.

I once fell headfirst into the bush alongside my front steps when I went outside to get the paper at 5:30 a.m.  My neighbor Marcella Womack found me a half-hour later and pulled me out, clucking and chuckling in turns as I giggled my relief.

I toppled backwards on a Westport sidewalk in Kansas City when my friend Alan White stopped to look over my head into a shop window as we strolled with our arms locked.  He glance down at me and quipped, Don’t you have reverse?

I tripped going across the stage at both my high school and college graduations.  My mother couldn’t believe that I didn’t fall crossing  to get my law degree.  When I took the stairs offstage on my bottom, legs akimbo, she thought, That’s my girl!

You’ve heard these stories at length before now, I’m sure; over coffee, in this blog, in the long-running Saturday Musings.  But did I ever tell you about dumping my baby, groceries, pocketbook, and my own damn self on a sidewalk in front of our regular grocery store?  The entire cart tipped sidewise.  Food rolled down the street, followed by coins, lipstick, eyeglass cleaner, and other assorted debris that we women insist on carrying in our handbags.  As I lay on the cracked, dirty curb, my hands still gripped the cart.  I stared into the wide orbs of my baby’s eyes.  The strap had held:  He barely wobbled as passers-by flew to our rescue and righted him.  

I gasped my gratitude, over and over, while my angelic baby smiled and cooed at the attention from little old ladies sure that they should call Social Services and report his dimwitted parent.

Yesterday nearly went by with no mishap.  I started the day in a good mood. I visited with a friend; consulted with cohorts; and took myself out to breakfast on the way to Lodi to buy groceries.  As I continued east, I got the idea to stop at Goodwill and look for old iron pieces for my yard.  A pleasant half-hour later, I headed back to my car with one of the regular clerks, an amazingly cheerful man named Melvin, walking beside me to help unload my purchases.

Melvin and I started laughing the minute we hit fresh air.  He called me ma’am and I said, Oh you don’t need to be so polite with me! and he grinned and unwittingly used one of my lines:  That’s how I was raised!  I started to add, And if I don’t say please and thank you, my mother rolls over in her grave — when suddenly, the world turned sidewise, taking me and my cart with it.

I scared the living daylights out of Melvin.  He wrung his hands, then calmed himself and urgently asked how he could help.  A woman ran over shouting that she was a professional caregiver and she would get me up!  I used my calmest voice to assure them that I was uninjured, could manage to hoist myself, please, let go of my arm, please!  The lady stepped back, only slightly offended.  Melvin said, You got this, you can do it, and surely enough, I did and I could.

A few minutes later, my purchases loaded in the car, I turned to Melvin with the warmest thanks I could summon.  I asked him, Can I give you a hug? and we embraced.  As I drove away, I scolded myself for not taking a photo of our radiant faces.  But I shall not forget the relief on his, nor the sincerity in his voice as told me that he would look forward to my next visit.  I believed him. I cannot imagine why, but I know he will be glad to see me walk through the door, especially if I manage to stay on my feet.

It’s the twelfth day of the ninety-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.