In the late Fifties, when black and white TV finally made it over the Divide and down Tombstone Canyon into Bisbee, Arizona, watching television was a family affair. With no way to tape shows to watch them later, people scheduled family viewing time. On Sunday nights at 16 Yuma Trail, the Ed Sullivan Show counted as “must see TV.” One night, a star was born when a tall, toothy, apparently awkward girl came on stage to sing her rendition of “I made a fool of myself over John Foster Dulles.” John Foster Dulles, Secretary of State at the time, was hardly a sex symbol, but Carol Burnett’s appearance that night turned her into a national phenomenon. And made her my hero.

I loved her engaging grin. I loved her ability to dead pan her way through countless jokes. I loved her ability to do seamless pratfalls, going out windows and determinedly crawling back inside. She transformed awkwardness into artless grace. For me, that was the most fascinating thing about her, because grace has never been my middle name.

My mother used to say that there was never a single Sunday school, Christmas program, or a grade-school stage performance in which I appeared without my showing up on stage with a scraped and scabby knee. In sixth grade, I fell on a newly paved playground while carrying a classmate piggy back. The resulting wound was serious enough that when my mother finally soaked off the principal-applied bandage, she actually had to sit down and put her head between her knees to keep from fainting. Almost sixty years later, the two-inch square scar from that remains visible on my knee for all to see.

My pratfalls are the stuff of which legends are made. I’m sure the people at the Sun Lakes Library still remember the book signing when the bar stool on casters went slipping away from behind me on the polished concrete floor, leaving me flat on my back side. And the people at Vroman’s in Pasadena may still recall my showing up for an event there with my knee and arm bleeding after I took a flying leap off an invisible curb at the Westin. I also fell at an airport in Calgary years ago. Once I picked myself up and dusted myself off, my biggest concern was for my Toshiba laptop with a half written book still inside it. (The Toshiba was fine. I had bruises for weeks.) And then there’s the time when, in the course of a charity dinner, I tipped the back leg of my chair off a raised dining room floor and fell backwards into what was, unfortunately, a sunken living room. That fall happened in such slow motion and took so long, that I actually had time to remember to ‘tuck and roll’ before I landed and went rolling across the room, ending with my head in the knee well of my hostess’s grandmother’s antique vanity. Oh, and there’s now a hand rail near the library in the Arizona Inn where I took to the air from the third stop up.

By now you all know where this is going. We’re currently on our Rick Steves Family Tour of Europe, and yes, I fell–spectacularly so–in the hotel in Venice. While everyone was having dinner and in preparation for our gondola ride, I went back to our hotel room for a new hearing aid battery. (Yes, I am a woman of a certain age.) Coming back down from our room, I made sure to step carefully as I came down the flight of stairs from our room, but then I completely missed an invisible step in the lobby and landed hard on a polished marble floor.

You’ve heard the old expression, the bigger they come, the harder they fall? Some of you who know me only from my book covers, have no idea how tall I am, so I’ll tell you. I’m more than six feet. Not quite six-one but close. In this case, think of the Leaning Tower of Pisa toppling over in the middle of a very small hotel lobby. I flew across the room, rammed hard into the top edge of the reception desk with my right boob and upper arm, pushed off from that, and then landed, like an upside-down turtle, on my backside and elbow. My backside has padding. My elbow does not.

The tiny desk clerk leaped to my aid, but I could see at once there was no way he’d be able to lever me back up. He was far too short and far too small. So I had him bring me a chair. Using that, I managed to clamber back to my feet. After making sure nothing physical was broken, I gathered my shattered pride and met up with the group outside. During our walk to the gondola pier I was still a little shaky.

We had paid for the full-meal-deal gondola experience–four loaded gondolas, traveling together, complete with an accordion player and an opera singer. The gondolier dragged me off the steps and flung me into our gondola sort of like a fisherman landing a halibut. I came down hard, just barely catching hold of the metal arm of a stool with the palm of my right hand. My death-grip on that stool was the only thing that kept me from from turning a complete summersault and being pitched, head over tea-kettle, into the drink.

Finally, with everyone else safely boarded on their gondolas, we set off, gradually making our way to the Grand Canal. It was a lovely night. Surprisingly enough for Venice in July it was even a little cool. The almost full moon, one night short of a super-moon, gradually rose over the water, ducking in and out behind a thin layer of cloud. To ease my sore back, I leaned back, resting my head and shoulders on Bill’s knees and upper legs, enjoying the moment. The other gondolas, loaded with kids, grandkids, and good friends, sailed along beside us with the opera singer belting out his wonderful serenade.

Was I thinking about the gondola ride? Not exactly. I was actually thinking about how Carol Burnett would have handled those various falls, taking it on the chin and always coming up smiling. And then, just as I was thinking about how I’d go about writing this up for my next blog posting, a big wave washed over the side of our gondola, soaking both Bill and me to the skin and leaving me with an unexpected mouthful of salt water.

I am not Carol Burnett. I did NOT come up from that one smiling. My new hearing aid battery got wet enough that it played its little I’m dying tune, the first few bars of Beethoven’s Fifth, all during our long walk back to the hotel. (We had to take the long dry way because St. Marco’s Square was already under water due to high tide.)

Several days and several countries later, my body is over being stiff, but there are still plenty of bruises showing. There’s a scab on my elbow and a whole collection of purple bruises on my arm that will probably still be entirely visible by next week when the tour starts.

But I realize now that I’ve given my kids and grandkids an amazing gift–something they’ll be able to talk and laugh about for the rest of their lives and mine–the story of how Grandma’s super romantic gondola ride turned into an unexpected dunking.

You know what? Now I can laugh about it, too. And, as Carol Burnett would say, “I’m so glad we’ve had this time together.”

Because I am glad, bruises and all.