HARD FALL, GYM ASSIST, GOLDEN TICKET FOR READERS

People fall, old and young, they slip and take a hard fall. Blame gravity. After gravity, the blame list gets a little murky.

The best thing to do before, and after, a fall is ask what you’ve learned. No need to ask it out loud where anyone can hear you, just a quiet assessment is enough.

If that seems like too much, I’ll help.

HARD FALL #1

The idea was family fun at the Sunriver ice rink; it turned into family funny when I hit a chunk of ice the zamboni missed, and had a cartoon-like fall.

As I skated back to the office to return the rented hockey skates, I decided I needed to read the ice better, tighten my skates, and not skate again. So far, so good.

HARD FALL #2

As a conscience man of empathy and gratitude, I worked with my children to be better people. Like me. I used the gentle-reminder-model, also known as nagging. I was a Nag Daddy.

Nag Daddy’s have a shelf life; I knew it had expired the evening one of my two high school wrestler sons used a technique I taught him against me. The short story is I flew the belly-to-belly express in the living room, broke the wall, crashed the TV, and broke a side table.

While momma and other sonny watched, I popped up. Right then I decided I’d communicate in a new way. Momma yelled that she’d call the cops if we didn’t stop; kid and I turned at the exact same trim, taking a break from our stare-down, and said, “We’re just wrestling.”

It made my heart sing. Since then, the story has changed to: I slipped and fell. The key is getting up fast.

HARD FALL #3

Yesterday, I told the wife I was going to the library for a few hours of book editing. I stopped at the Tapphoria Tap House in Tigard along the way. Eagles vs Pats, with an Eagle fan wearing a McNabb jersey at the bar talking shit.

I told her I had a Jaworski jersey. (I don’t.)

Two mug-club #32 house beers later, I decided to finish my editing day at my home table. Driving up, I dodged around a car parked across my driveway. It was the power washing couple my beloved paid to clean the cement and stonework. The place looked spanking good, an expression I’ve never used until now.

I walked the property, admiring their work. The clean rock steps weren’t slippery anymore. Except for anyone wearing the shoes I was wearing.

I took a certain step to the next, and slipped like a fat man on a choppy ice rink; I got spanked, I slipped, and again, caught myself in the air, and stuck the landing. My arms didn’t collapse because I workout. My head didn’t bounce off the rock because my arms didn’t collapse. Instead of a concussion, a broken arm, and two separated shoulders, I jumped up with a gym assist.

GYM ASSIST

Excuse the preaching, but I’m preaching a little about this: I’m writing a book, The Book, a memoir in fact, about the little known stories shared while I got the cure for HPV16 tongue cancer. Of all places, right?

Part of the book writing job is writing a book proposal, a sales letter, to an agent, or a publisher. Part of the job is reading comparable titles, and I’ve got to say I’m a little put off by cancer guys who include their resume.

It feels like a bigger loss when accomplished people are driven down by cancer; the rest of us need more than that. The Gym Assist is there for everyone; the stronger you stay, the better you live. That’s the golden ticket.

And that’s the book I’m writing.