Today we stumbled upon a group in our small town who are working to restore a steam engine train that was built and operated in the 1920's. Amazing to see such a thing up close and think about what it must have been like when it was in operation, a modern marvel in its day. My sons got to ring the bell and work the (loud) whistle. We even ducked underneath and into the boiler area, getting a firsthand look at the restoration process (no, it wasn't boiling).
All was well until I ducked back out from underneath the boiler area. I vaguely heard our guide say something about being careful not to hit my head, when I started to stand back up ...
WHAM! For a moment, I thought someone had hit me over the head with something. Stunned, I fell to the ground, holding the top of my head. Looking up, I saw several faces looking down, one of them my husband's. In tears and pain, woozy and embarrassed for me, my family and our guide, I reached out for Todd. He tried to stand me up but I found it difficult. I apologized to our guide, saying it wasn't his fault; I tend to run into things. My white pants were filthy (we were in a large warehouse-type building filled with all kinds of greasy stuff.) Todd led me out of the shop and into the car. I was holding my head as the bump grew larger. I couldn't believe what had just happened.
Hard not to be scared at times like these. Fortunately, I hit my head on the hardest part, the top, and there was no blood evident. But, man, did it hurt! At home, with an ice pack on my head and snug in my recliner, I kept reliving the incident. It took several hours of rest to recover. Every time I hear the word "train", I shudder. Washing my hair tonight will be interesting.
Lesson learned: I'm a klutz. Class dismissed.