Once when I was in high school, and I was in a hurry, I rushed down a flight of stairs and tripped over my own feet. I landed at the bottom of the stairs, on hands and knees, with my books spread all over the floor. With the exception of the one security guard everyone feared, no one was in the hall. He rushed over and helped me up. "Are you hurt," he asked. I kind of growled and brushed myself off as he gathered up my books. "You're fine. Your pride is more wounded than the rest of you." He was right.
I thought of him years later when I took another spill that was even more humiliating. My husband Bill, my 15 year old daughter Becki, and I were on vacation in Philadelphia, and it was my 51st birthday. We planned to celebrate at an Amish restaurant in the Lancaster area, but as usual, we were running low on money. If we wanted to see all we could we had to make choices. So my choice was that we drive into Philadelphia and play it by ear. The others agreed.
At the top of our list of places we wanted to see was Eastern State Penitentiary, which is reputed to be haunted. And we wanted a Philadelphia steak sandwich. A guide at the prison gave us directions to a place he liked. We took his advice, which included a bit of a hike, we ate and we enjoyed it very much.
After that we decided to take a ghost walk. We found a quaint ice cream parlor in the old part of town where they sold tickets. So we bought two, one for Becki and I. While we waited we had ice cream cones.
We joined our group just outside. There were nice young families, and there were some young people as well. The guide arrived with lantern in hand just as the sun was settling. He was dressed in 18th Century attire, including a crumpled hat and a long cape. When ready, he lit his lantern and held it above his head. "Anyone with tickets for the 8:30 ghost walk, please join me over here". He led us across the street to Independence Hall.
We heard stories about how statues of Benjamin Franklin leave their mounts to walk around, and about Benedict Arnold's wife who still dances in the ball rooms of a beautiful old mansion. We learned about the lady with the lamp who walked the streets every morning during the influenza outbreak of the 1790's, calling out the dead. And how she can be seen in the early morning hours even now. And he told us some modern stories about famous or not so famous residents.
City developers, whether by accident or on purpose, kept up the rugged old cobblestone streets, and I was mindful of tripping up. But then as the ghost stories changed from old to new, the surroundings changed. We found ourselves in a neighborhood where modern residents bought up older buildings and morphed them into lofts and sold them as condos. The streets changed as well. I sighed with relief when I came across black top.
I don't remember if it happened on the first street or the next. We came to a busy intersection. Now mind you I am heavy, and where I kept up with the crowd, I was last in line as I huffed and puffed my way along. When the light changed, all the families and the young people bounded ahead of us. Becki and I started across last, with her just in front of me. I wanted to make it quick because the cars were hurrying to a stop, and the drivers looked impatient. I just barely made it into the middle of the street when I tripped over a manhole cover. And belly flopped, right there, in front of God and country, and smack dab in front of one of those vehicles. And it seems to me the guy in the first car revved his engine as I fell.
I have no idea just how quickly the mind reacts in a situation like this, or how quickly cogent thoughts are formed. All I knew is if that first driver had been distracted, he might not have seen me cross the street at all, let alone fall. I made up my mind. If that driver didn't see me, he would hear me. Before I hit the ground, I began screaming. I swear I said help. Becki swears I dropped a few f-bombs on the way down, and a few other expletives while lying there. She stood by me waving her hands. I noticed her expression as well as the tread of the tires. She looked terrified. I know I was. The tire tread looked a little worn.
The guide and a nice young father in a suit rushed to my aid. Now mind you, I just made it to my knees when the guide and the father each grabbed one of my upper arms. "When I say three," the guide said.
I swatted their hands away. "What? Are you nuts? You're going to hurt your backs trying to get me up! Block traffic." Neither were willing to back off, and poor Becki, still looking terrified, was mute (maybe for the first time in her life). She glanced around and used her hands, indicating she wanted me to rise. Finally one of the men gave me his hand. I pulled myself up as the other held his hands up to traffic. If I counted right, the light changed three times before I finally made it out of the street.
I bruised my arm and it hurt for about a week. But like the cop said when I fell down the stairs at school. My pride took a bigger hit. In fact, his voice echoes in my head every time the subject of me sprawled out in the middle of the intersection comes up.
So there it is. It was a great vacation and a great birthday until I hit the ground. Becki won't admit that she was as terrified as I was. Her expression is seared into my memory almost more deeply than the actual fall is. She still tells me though, "Mom, I have never heard so much profanity in my life." I don't remember that. But just in case she's right, to anyone who just happened to take their children on a ghost walk in Philadelphia on the day that the fat lady fell in the middle of the street, I deeply apologize for the profanity.