Greetings from the Ridge.
A friend called this week asking about a column I once penned on how to fall on the ice. I told her that I had no knowledge of writing such a thing, but she swore that I had, so I assumed I’d lost my memory due to a fall on the ice. The lady wanted to reprint it in her church bulletin, and although I had no idea what splatting on your tail had to do with the evangelism I did a quick computer search for “falling,” “ice,” and “busted butt,” coming up with a big, bruised nothing.
But since she was intent on getting this needed bit of wintertime information I sent her what I observed in the various slick parking lots and driveways of a Midwest winter.