The Making of A New Constellation
Yesterday (or possibly the day before because time can be unreliable when one is small and busy observing) I witnessed an event of considerable importance.
I was conducting my usual daily walking of Dad. Normally, his walking is perfectly respectable. One foot goes in front of the other. There may be occasional squirrel-related distractions, but overall the system works well.
But on this particular day, the ground decided to get sneaky. It covered itself with ice and hid under a blanket of snow as ice often likes to do.
To the untrained eye, everything looked perfectly safe.
Dad stepped forward confidently.
The ice smirked.
I watched Dad closely, feeling pretty suspicious of the ice.
One leg moved forward. The other attempted to remain behind. Arms began waving about in wide circles, as if Dad were suddenly trying to fly, or possibly signal passing aircraft.
There were several impressive noises.
Then Dad landed.
I sat very still, processing the situation in a calm and professional manner. Dad eventually stood up again, though he looked somewhat rumpled.
The ice had behaved in a most underhanded way.
I made a mental note: ice requires caution, and Dad may deserve a medal for surviving with dignity.
I was fairly certain he was seeing stars, or perhaps even accidentally making a new constellation.
At this point I began to ponder that Giggle Sprout should probably hear about this.
Not because Giggle Sprout could have prevented it. Giggle Sprout is not particularly helpful in matters involving ice. But because Giggle Sprout would almost certainly find the flailing part extremely interesting.
Also, I think he may appreciate my theory on the new constellation.
I will explain it to him carefully.
Though knowing Giggle Sprout, he may simply giggle.
Which, now that I think about it, is exactly what the ice seemed to do.
Notes to self:
Buy a medal for Dad (maybe one for me too).
Always supervise Dad.
Remember that dramatic falls are entertaining only when no one is hurt.
