A Very Bad Misstep

In mid-air, I could hardly believe it.

July 26, 2024

Day 6 dawned cloudy and humid but that didn’t dampen my mood. I had found Lebanon Hills Regional Park online. It’s tucked into the rolling hills of Dakota County, in Apple Valley just south and slightly east of Minneapolis. With nearly 2,000 acres and miles of trails, it’s heavily forested. We would be there four nights, a welcome change from one-night stays. We arrived, set up camp, and settled in. It was still early enough to rest, shower, do laundry, and unfortunately, trip and fall, making a bloody mess of my forehead and badly bruising my knees. You’d think I’d learn to slow down my brain so my eyes and body can keep up.

Leaving Damneara Farm that morning made me feel sad. In a very short time, I’d come to care about our hosts but there was no time to linger. Ahead was our reason for the trip. A visit with cousins in Minneapolis and Foley. Some I’d never met and some I hadn’t seen in more than 50 years.

The 207 mile drive from Elizabeth to Apple Valley took almost three and a half hours. Everything takes longer than you’d think in a truck and trailer with two dogs who want to drink and pee at least as often as we do.

Lebanon Hills is a popular urban campground in Apple Valley. The grounds are lush and the foliage hides it from the world. We had a fire ring we never used (it rained almost every day we were there) and a picnic table. The mosquitos were annoying but the staff was friendly and the restrooms and laundry room spotless. We met campers, mostly from out of state, who stay there while they visit relatives and the huge Mall of the Americas. Shopping for groceries and other things was not far – about three miles away. Ask me. I couldn’t find my prescription medicine and we had to hunt down a Walgreens to get refills.

Through the luck of the draw we camped in the West Loop, space 45 (in case you’re ever there). Our site was tucked back in so it appeared we had no one right outside our door. That helped Kota maintain a modicum of self-control, though he still barked anytime someone entered his bubble.

We arrived on Day 6, the day before I was to meet my cousin Darlene from New York who was flying in. Our fathers were brothers, raised in Lolo and Missoula by two Swedish parents we called Grammie and Grampie. We didn’t see each other much growing up, only occasionally for Christmas or during summer vacations in Montana. I had planned to meet her on Day 6. I tripped and fell instead.

It may have been Darlene I was thinking about as I rushed from the laundry room to the Nash and tripped over an unmarked sidewalk hazard. As I was hurtling toward the rough asphalt face first I remember thinking what I usually do when I fall: “Shit. I can’t believe I did that!” Done it, I had.

Two men, the kind who who are perpetually outside doing something very important to their RVs and who watch anything around them that moves, perked up. Action, at last! One started toward me but stopped when I appeared to be getting up.The other called at me from under his awning, “Are you ok? You hit the ground hard!” They meant well. I didn’t appreciate it. I glanced up toward our trailer. It didn’t look like the Professor had seen me out of the trailer window or he might have run down to where I lay assessing my injuries.

“Are you ok? Are you ok?” the Professor hadn’t seen me, apparently.

As I struggled back to my feet I put out my arms in the universally understood signal for stop-right-there and said, “No, I’m ok. Thank you.” The last thing I want when I fall is pity, even if it’s genuine.

I like to pretend nothing’s happened when I get hurt. God help the man or woman who makes a fuss. I put a hand up to my forehead and it came away bloody. It hurt. Shit.

I walked back up to the Nash and got the Professor to take me to the drug store for large band aids. On the way there I let him fuss a little. Privately. Inside the store people mostly averted their eyes all except one lady who offered to treat me onsite. She had a band aid in her purse, she said. So much for pretending like it never happened.

And though I’d planned to meet Darlene for dinner that night, I didn’t. Instead, the next morning, I took my wounded pride, battered body, big band aid, and tender knees to pick her up at her hotel to go into Minneapolis and meet cousin Cindy for a day of sight seeing. Geesch!