One Step at a Time

There was a slope to the side of our house which meant the guests visiting had only to step up three steps to be level at the front door, but at the rear were the big concrete red-sided steps, eleven in all that led up to the laundry and the back door. Yes, with our family there had been a few stumbling and falling accidents over the time we lived here. Particularly in the winter when the steps could end up with a layer of ice-freeze across them and you could inadvertently slid off their surface and come down hard on the concrete edge or, if slipping too quickly, collect a whack to the lower back. I’m sure that all of us, at one time or another, had taken such a fall. Coming up them you could occasionally stumble and fall to whack your knees and scrape a hand, when you were small. I doubted there was a chance my father would now stumble coming up the stairs, which was probably a good thing as in the event of anything like that happening I would be blamed for being the cause of it. Which would only have added to the arriving punishment.

Remembering the concrete stairs rising up from the back yard. There was always that thrill of jumping from the steps as you ran down them. We were kids. You’d be chasing one of the other kids or the dog, one of the two we had while there (but one I will talk about later – Michael O’Shaunessy, yes that was actually the dog’s name).  As you leapt down the stairs you would try to jump from the third or forth step from the bottom, trying to clear the concrete path and land on the grass. I do say trying. There had been a few instances where one of us, not quite clearing the path, would land on the edge before the grass, causing the ankle of the lander/landee (okay, no such word) to twist, roll and/or sprain. This of course meant the person being chased would pause, turn and usually laugh. Adding to the temper of the fallen, or, if chasing the dog he would immediately turn back to you evoking visions of Lassie running to the aid of Timmy. But no. The dog would think you were playing as you rolled on the grass in pain and he would immediately jump on you and start licking or snapping at you depending on how worked up you had made him prior to your fall.

If the snapping turned to biting and you started calling out in pain, trying to shout above the dogs excitement, while hiding your face from his teeth or tongue, a slightly non-concerned voice would usually call out from the kitchen area above. “Keep it down out there.” The sole level of concern exhibited. Or, that classic comment when being mildly savaged by an excited terrier, “You kids stop teasing the dog!”

(continued tomorrow)