I hate when I’m tricked into reading a whole book even when it repeatedly promises a bombshell and never delivers, even when the writing is so boring and clumsy and confusing that I think it must be me and I stay with it anyway like it was a marriage, even after limping through lame metaphors and confounding phrases like this one:
 
“He felt a sickening pain rinse through his body, as if he’d spilled something on his shirt; he wasn’t able to be able to be able.”
 
So after I hung on recently through the last page of a going-nowhere book and even consulted reviews to see if I was crazy, I renewed my vow to stop reading, to divorce that sheaf of words if I’m left unfulfilled and used up by page 100. 
 
I don’t have time for stinkers anymore.
 

People yell at you when you fall. “Are you alright? Are you alright?” they shout, even if you are clearly conscious. They respond as if you not only stumbled but also are deaf.
 

And they want to get you on your feet as soon as possible.
 
After falling twice this summer, once at a pebbled beach on my way to a Native American healing ceremony and once on my way to an antique store, I understand a helper’s impulse but I recommend another strategy, if the person is not unconscious.
 
Sit down beside her and be quiet. Maybe hold her hand. And maybe say just once, “It’ll be ok.”
 
“It’ll be ok,” is never a lie.

I charge nearly every purchase on my credit card mostly so that I can more accurately budget and earn reward points. My monthly statement also reads like a diary, a record of my movements through the world.
 
Mostly, this month there are dining excursions. A boulangerie sandwich with a friend. Sangria and a salad at a street festival. Freshly made lasagna from an Italian market for a camping trip.
 
Then there are charges from MKE Film and BP Gas and TJ Maxx and Antiques on Main and one that makes my wrist ache. A charge for a wrist splint from Stratton Drug reminds me of my accident this month.
 
As my sister-in-law and I were walking and talking on our way to the next antique store, I tripped on a deviant sidewalk and fell with all my weight onto my left wrist. A bystander reached to grab my hands to immediately stand me up but I demurred, cradling my arm.
 
When I finally stood, I remember looking at passersby, envious of their healthy wrists. I nearly laughed out loud at my internal whinery. Later, my sister-in-law concocted a story we could use about a bar fight in which I led with my left fist because I didn’t want to set down the beer in my right hand. And we laughed. And laughed.

Luckily, no hospital services needed to be charged on my credit card as a result of the fall. Nor the laughter.

His mother wondered why her one-year-old choked while eating his first sliver of watermelon. Kind of cute but a little worrisome. Watermelon seems like such a natural food for babies, we all agreed so what was it with this summer treat?
 
As it turns out, eating watermelon requires a rare hybrid feat of preparing our throats for swallowing at the same time as we chew. Or all that luscious pinkness will trickle down our throats and cough-cough-cough.
 
I marvel at all that children teach us. And, as if eating watermelon wasn’t pleasure enough, now I’ll always think of this steely-eyed toddler and his first bites of summer.