Donovan Kelly
Crummy But Good Writer with a Lighter Touch
A special bond exists between man and his ladder, a bond of both potential tallness and fallness. I speak now as one who has gone from tallness to fallness.
Together, man and his ladder can dream of reaching new heights, of scaling unconquered roofs and trees. But together they must also answer to the harsh demands of the laws of gravity.
To help me reach those new heights, my ladder came with a 12-step program. The first step is called Nothing, the second, Next to Nothing. Then comes Don’t You Wish You Were This Tall When You Tried to Play Basketball?
The next four steps are Feeling Good, Better Than Good, Good Enough, and OK You Can Stop Now.
The ninth step is Stop, and the tenth, Stop Stop! The eleventh step is appropriately called Never! And the twelfth is, Good Bye Sucker!
On that fateful, rainy, gravity-filled Sunday morning, I don’t think I reached Never!, let alone Good Bye Sucker. But who knows. Concussions can leave so many blank spots in the memory. I don’t remember getting out the ladder. I don’t remember climbing the ladder. I don’t remember the ladder slipping on the wet deck or my plunging into the flower box. I don’t even remember trying to break the deck with my head.
But there, days after I left the hospital and returned home, there lay the fallen ladder, the tumbled flower box, and most of all, the hard, hard deck. Monuments to my stupidity.
A stupidity that weeks later I still felt strongly in every bone and muscle, but a stupidity that I don’t remember. Bruised but unbroken, concussed and still dizzy, at least I can now answer that age old philosophical question: If a ladder falls in the forest and nobody sees it, did it really fall? Darn right it fell.
I do remember crawling in the rain from the deck to the house and into the arms of my stunned wife. I remember the sound of sirens, which I both begged for and dreaded. I remember a nice take-charge emergency technician, who tested my memory by asking me to name my children. To which I could only reply, “What children?”
Yes, a special bond exists between man and his ladder. Oh the stories they could tell! But with that bond comes a pact, an impact of silence. I will never tell what really happened and neither will my ladder.
Perhaps I should not say “my” ladder. The family insists that we be permanently separated and that I give up all future attempts at laddering.
But there are so many roofs to climb. And my ladder does come with that easy 12-step program. Maybe tomorrow I’ll just try Nothing, and Next To Nothing.
(Kelly writes from a new ladder-free zone in Hamilton,Va. Healing balms may be sent to donovan@donovanwrites.com.)