the fidgeter

I was a big fidgeter when I was a kid, and added to this was I always touching things, you know, sticking my feet and fingers in places where they didn't belong. My father had tried to correct this what he saw as invasive and unnecessary behaviour.

Once when I was really young and I was going to pick up my skates from Moe the skate sharpener at the Fort Edward Mall, I hoped out of the car and walked over to this lonely soda can standing on its end in the middle of the parking lot.

My father saw what was coming, "don't do it" he said, but by this time I had already pulled my leg really far back, all poised to give this can a big kick (I wouldn't have listened anway), and wham my little toes connect with the thing, I hit nice and low, you know, but not too low, I want to pop the thing up, but really send it sailing as well, and 'wham' I hit it alright, but although the pop was topped the can sure wasn't empty, it was filled with orange soda. My father dosen't lecture me. We pick up the skates and drive home, he washes my pants.

Today I was walking home the long way, and although it was cold it was bright and I was dressed for the weather. On the road home I see this fluffy ball of snow, about the size of a soccer ball, that's some good kicking snow I thought, so just like I did twenty four years ago I pull my leg real far back, ready to let it loose to send this ball of snow flying, I even had this fence post in my mind's eye as a good target. And, wham, the thing was white alright but it sure wasn't snow, it was a big chunk of ice that only looked white because it was covered by the morning mist. I'm walking around now with a sore toe.

I don't know if I've ever listened, I sure haven't learned a thing. This whole sad tragedy is bound to repeat itself in innumerable ways, many of which do not involve kicking.