I have noticed that buried in my head are two pictures of my sister and stairs. When she was quite young, maybe four or five, she was trying to get onto the front porch. She must have gone out the back door but she was trying to come in the front door. She was standing on the top step, outside a child protection gate fastened across the entrance to the porch. She was trying to get the rather elaborate mechanism open so she could come in through the front. If her older brother had a brain, he would have helped her. He didn't and, struggling to get the gate open, she fell off the top step. She broke her right arm when she landed. That changed her from a right-handed person to a left-handed one. My mother, my sister and later, my stepdad were all lefthanded. I was the only right-handed one.
Years later, when my sister was in senior high school, she struggled to get down the stairs to the ground floor. "What is the matter?", I asked. My mother said tryouts for cheer-leading had left her very stiff. She made it down ok and I have never seen her so impaired since.
