Blog on ice.

For nearly five years, I’ve walked about a half a mile through my suburb each workday morning to the Metra commuter train station nearest to where I live, and the same distance in the afternoon or early evening when I return home. If I’m tired or otherwise distracted, it’s a chore, but most of the time I enjoy the walk. My mind can — and does — roam, I can sense the passing of the seasons, or note some subtle change in a neighbor’s house. Some days, I even catch the smell from the P Farm cookie factory, about a mile away. If you’re going to live near a factory, a cookie factory is the thing. We didn’t know about it before we bought our house, so it was a bonus extra.

I’ll walk through any kind of weather: zero degrees with wind chill, pleasant spring rains, dry warm May days, hot summer mornings, humid August afternoons, brisk fall days, drizzly fall days, December days on the verge of winter, but enjoyable anyway. One day in April, I’ll notice that the grass has turned green, seemingly overnight. A little bit later, I can see various trees as they shoot out their greenery in the spring; and come fall, they turn color and lose leaves according to some internal timetable. I like all that, even though I am not interested enough in natural history to ever learn the names of the different species (which I would forget anyway). I can see the changing moods of the sky, blue or dark clouds, rain or intense sun. I walked through a hurricane once. In a manner of speaking. It was a November 1998 storm that blew across the Great Lakes region, and according those who study these things, it would have been a hurricane had it passed over water instead land. My most lasting memory of that evening is the way twin pine trees, fixed firmly in a yard a few blocks from my house, blew and swayed and shook.

I see joggers and kids going to school, municipal vehicles out to do something or other, random dogs and cats, bicyclers and skateboarders, people in their yards and the blue of televisions in dark rooms. I know most of the sidewalks and their idiosyncrasies — bends, cracks, and one old stretch with the words “E.D. Otto 1923” carved in it. I suppose the local historical society could tell me about that, but I’d rather speculate that he was a cement purveyor who had a good gig in our town a few years after it was incorporated.

Yesterday I was walking home. The sun had just set. For minor fun, I cracked bits of ice on the sidewalk as I went by. About three blocks away from home I was getting ready to cross a street, and the ice had its revenge. Down I went. With the suddenness of any full-body fall. Made a three-point landing on the asphalt — ankle, knee, palm. Pain. I’ve had worse, but this was bad enough. I hobbled home and in due time came to understand that my left ankle hurt the most.

It was an evening of ice packs and limping around. Aspirin to help me sleep. As it turned out, I’d done minor damage to some ligaments; no fractures. But what a nuisance, crossing that line between able-bodied and not, even if only briefly.

Tomorrow: A visit to the doctor.