My brother Dave the plumber, while in a customers garage, stepped on pebble the size of the period at the end of this sentence . He turned on his ankle, fell to the gound and shattered his wrist.
I don’t know why but some of us have weak ankles. Dave says he has high arches, but I know that’s not my problem. I’m pretty sure I’m flat footed. Over the years I have turned on my ankle many a time. Once when walking home from a Cubs game with my cute little nephews, I stepped in a hole in the sidewalk on Clark Street. I hit the pavement like a sack of potatoes. The pain shot through me and I let loose with a string of profanities that would make Big Al (my dad) look like a nun. I of course blamed the Mayor of Chicago for not maintaining the sidewalks. To this day the Fanning boys think Harold Washingtons first name was Mother F**ker.
A few times I have turned on my ankle and hit the pavement while walking my dog Molly. She of course thinks we are playing and starts running. I of course am being dragged around at the other end of her leash further scraping me up. The neighbors are getting used to it and call their children inside so as not to pollute their little ears.
The last time I fell was at the River Walk in downtown Fort Lauderdale. My foot stepped ¼ inch off of the sidewalk and I went flying into a vendors booth. The vendor was selling wind chimes.
With the sound of a hundred wind chimes ringing, two old ladies came running and tried to help me up. “Sir are you alright?” they asked. Insult upon insult, being called sir by someone who I think of as ‘old ladies’ while wind chimes call the crowds attention to me.