My Dad Part III

Then there was time that Dad got mad at Mom for putting salt on our icy sidewalks. He claimed that they would crack and he didn't want to deal with cracking sidewalks.

So Mom stopped putting salt on our icy sidewalks.

One night, we were all sitting in our living room. Mom was crocheting, I was watching TV and Dad was enjoying his evening beverage. Then he decided to see if the newspaper had arrived. Now, keep in mind that he was wearing his bedroom slippers. Slippers which have absolutely no traction on them whatsoever.

He goes out the door and the next thing we hear is: ZZZZZiiiipppp (slippers on ice); THUD (Dad hitting the icy pavement ... hard); and OOHHHH (Dad's painful moan).

Mom and I look at each other with wide eyes. Each thinking but not saying, "He's done killed himself now!"

Mom threw down her crochet and ran (literally) for the door to check on Dad. I ran to the phone to dial 911, because we just knew this wasn't good. I hear Mom holler, "He's ok, don't call 911."

It wasn't too long after that that Dad started putting salt on the icy sidewalks. I guess he figured that cracks in the sidewalk were better than cracks to the head!

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