So I was outside raking the snow off the roof. On the front of the house there were some pretty big icicles hanging down. As I stood on the ground, I tapped them from the back with my telescoping snow rake so they wouldn’t fall against the house and, wouldn’t you know, on the very first one I knocked down, a chunk came hurtling right at my gourd. Luckily, I had turned away, knowing some of the smaller pieces might hit me. One did. It wasn’t all that small. It felt like a rock. It hurt like a son of a buck. I said a bad word... or two. I rubbed my head - in the back near the top. I finished knocking the rest down and came in the house.
I tell Sue. She asked if I had a lump. Heretofore, I had only been feeling my sore spot through my hat. It turns out I had two sore spots: an all encompassing sore spot and then the sore spot with the lump.
I felt my head for the first time without my hat on and found my goose egg. I said, “Yeah, I’ve got a lump.” And as I brought my hand down she said, “You’re bleeding!” Well, whaddyaknow? I was.
She then tells me that the activity I was engaged in it exactly how old men get hurt. Sure is a good thing there weren’t any old men out there with me.
Ironically, I think I’ll put some ice on my head and go sit by the fire.
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