Bob’s fallen ­ but he always gets up

Bob's fallen � but he always gets up
Normally I wouldn't write about what happened to me recently, but this time is an exception.

All I know is that when St. Patrick's Day comes around next year, I'm going to a place where Polanders do not get into trouble.

Let me tell you about it.


It all started innocently enough when we went with good friends Pal and Patty Christensen to have a nice quiet meal of corned beef and cabbage.

But first we stopped at a hangout of young people which was packed to the rafters with green-clad celebrants.

Fortunately, we got a table right next to the band � which we couldn't even hear because of the decibel-level of the happy throng.

When we got hoarse enough yelling across the table so that we could be heard, we decided to go to the food place.

(The din in that crowded first stop was so loud that it reminded me of the time in Seattle when a couple of us advised the owner of a noisy bar that he should hire a musical group to play softly so that his customers could have an intimate conversation. He did � and his bar was empty! Consequently, he went back to a noisy band � and before long he had a standing-room-only crowd!)

That's the last time I gave any advice to anyone � but I digress.

Anyway, we proceeded to our corned beef and cabbage place, and that's where I gave Phyllis and our friends a chore they weren't expecting.

My rubbery legs gave away, and down I went! I didn't pick the choice spot to land either, because it was on concrete.

I bled profusely, but there were no broken bones. Thank goodness. They cleaned me up; we laughed a lot; and then we went in for our food.

I must be head-heavy, because that's not the first time I've fallen. I fell once in a motel in Lincoln, NE, where we'd gone to see the Huskers play. The second time was in Amsterdam, Holland, when I stumbled over a streetcar track just ahead of a tram.

On both occasions I broke my glasses and scuffed up my face � but again we laughed a lot and I went on with the program. I guess I'm just prone (no pun intended) to falling down and hitting my noodle.

At any rate, St. Patrick's Day is jinxed for me, no matter how much corned beef and cabbage I eat. There is no way this Polish-American guy can become Irish!

I blame it all on the Patron Saint of Erin. I looked like I had just taken a beating with a shillelagh.

But this too shall pass. However, next time I celebrate the "wearin' of the green," I'll look for a softer place to land.

Meanwhile, I'll protect my noggin and try to stay upright. That's the least I can do. I'll chalk up my latest fall to the luck of the Irish � or maybe the third time's a charm!

� 2006 Robert F. Karolevitz

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