So my dear wife Karen and I took the at-last warmup and a sunny spell as a sign that we should move the familiar plastic red chair out from under the side overhang and into the backyard for a relaxation spell.
Sit and chat we did, late Saturday afternoon beers in hand.
For a couple of minutes.
Until I heard a crack underneath me.
It started at my left side, spreading right. The backward slope of the Adirondack style took a quick scramble up and out of the chair from my thinking process.
The horrible realization sat in, so to speak, in slow motion as the back gave out completely and I tumbled straight backward to the little square of concrete.
My beer remained firmly, proudly, confusingly, unskilled in my right hand.
Ellie B had bolted in fright at the sound of the crack.
Karen asked if I were OK and what she should do.
Let me lie here a moment, said I, taking stock of all aches and pains with my butt still above me in the red seat of the dang chair.
The plastic back that had cracked loose apparently has somewhat cushioned my back’s landing.
Nothing major amiss, I reported.
If you slide the butt end of the chair out from under my legs, that might be a good start for my eventual climb back up, I decided.
So flat I laid for a minute or two.
Ellie B came back and comforted me.
My back and butt were both a bit sore. I felt an emerging bump where my head had met the concrete.
I am too old for mishaps like this.
Any replacement chairs may be made of wood.
The rest of that beer sure tasted good.