For what seems like months - and indeed may actually be months - every path between house and barns and paddocks has been an unbroken sheet of thick ice. Paddocks, ditto. My boots are permanently cleated and my pace is a slow penguin-waddle. Last week we had a couple of warmer days and some of the ice had finally begun to melt, exposing rocks like little islands that provided welcome moments of surefooted relief along the still ice-covered paths. Yesterday evening when I came in from carrying water buckets to the paddock trough, I was so happy to reach the house without falling. I was hopeful that more warmish days would melt the rest of the ice before we got more snow. Lovely soft snow. I've often said I'd rather have two feet of snow than a quarter-inch of ice.
But we got more snow last night, insulating the remaining icepack. Despite my cleats, I nearly fell twice this morning just carefully putting out the birdfeeders right next to the house. The fresh snow was already four inches deep at that point and has continued to fall all day. It is genuinely dangerous walking, because even knowing that the ice is under the powder doesn't prevent it from taking your feet out from under you.
These days, icy or not, I am far more conscious of the risk of falling than I was prior to the shoulder dislocation in 2024. Or, more accurately, I was always quite conscious of the risk of falling, and of course knew that a fall could have very bad results, but I had never experienced the very bad results. I've fallen countless times, just as I've bumped into things quite often; I am a clumsy person and even at my advanced age seem to have only a vague concept of where my body begins and ends. I think the worst injury I had had from an earlier fall occurred - wait for it, and I don't mind if you laugh - was when I cracked a rib while vacuuming. I have always said that housework is dangerous.
Thinking back now, my hardest landings have probably been falls from horses. This isn't even about being clumsy; I'd wager anyone who spends much time on horses also comes off now and then. I recall one fall before a training jump when I got up from the ground with the wind knocked out of me and so jelly-legged I could hardly stand, but of course got back in the saddle and rode to the jump again. That whole thing about "getting back on the horse"? It's true.
So that bizarre little plunge from my own doorstep with the resulting shoulder injury was a watershed experience for me. I had plenty of time during the months of one-armed chores and physical therapy to rethink the way I do things, and to simply not do some of the things I had always done. But...chores are chores, and must be done, one way or another, period. Which brings us to this evening's chores. And all this nattering about horses and vacuums and such is looking a bit like procrastination, isn't it? Hmmm. Out I go.
I was about to post this but just realized that it might be better to post it when I'm back inside, chores done, everyone fed and watered and tucked in for the night. So here I go. Hang on a sec.
...
Okay, back again. Fell once, on a slippery slope. Got up. Reassured the three frightened goats who saw it happen and were poised to flee. Checked to see if the packet of banana buttons in my pocket had become a banana smoothie. Miraculously they hadn't, so I handed them out. We were all happy.
Onward!
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