“Oh, I wasn’t saying hello to you,” she explained, when he said hello to her. Rose hadn’t meant to cause confusion, she’d just have to clear that up. “I was saying the sign looks like it’s waving hello. Not that saying hello is a bad thing. It’s always good to be polite. So, hello!”
She bounced just slightly on the balls of her feet, her hands clasped in front of her. It was a bit of a nervous habit. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”
Which reminded her of something, and she launched into a further explanation. “Which actually happened to Ole Klingenbacher. Back in St. Olaf-- that’s where I come from, St. Olaf, Minnesota. Well, Ole Klingenbacher was St. Olaf’s hopscotch champion. That’s a great honor. Every year on Hay Day, which is the day we St. Olafians celebrate hay, there’s a great hopscotch competition. The first few rounds went okay, but then they started bringing out bigger and bigger barrels of scotch and started moving the hay bales further and further apart. On his second to last hop, Ole landed poorly and he twisted his ankle, but he was determined to go on. He wanted to defend his championship, he said. So they moved the hay bales back another foot and brought out the biggest barrel in St. Olaf. They filled it up with scotch and Ole went to hop, but he forgot about his ankle and he pushed off with the wrong foot. Needless to say, he didn’t make it and ended up falling right into the barrel. We were all worried he might drown, because Ole couldn’t swim. Charlie, my husband, used to say he swam like a brick. Well, we all rushed forward to pull him out, but Ole wasn’t drowning. He was drinking.” Rose nodded. “And that’s how Ole Klingenbacher became the town drunk instead of the hopscotch champion. All because he got off on the wrong foot.”
Suddenly she brightened. “Oh look, now there’s a little green man on the sign. Does that mean we can walk?” Assuming that it did, Rose started across the street.