Fears rekindled

I dropped some matches tonight. I mean, I dropped a whole box of them right on my dad's study carpet. Luckily the box wasn't very full, so it didn't take me long to pick them up, but as I did, I thought, "Wouldn't it be just great if somehow I managed to strike a match on the carpet and the fluffy stuff went up in flames?"

 

As I now recall the time when I was worried about bumping my head, and then ended up tripping, I realize that this was a dumb thing to even think about. So of course when I was stooping to pick up the last match, my careless fingers somehow managed to drag it up the frame of the door, and presto! The match was lit. Startled, I dropped it before I could think. . . and it landed on my hair. Ay, ay, ay! I love my hair, and if you know what it's like to possess long hair and have a special fondness for it, you'll be able to sense the panic and agony that went through me right then. Of course maybe the first thing to do would have been to drop and roll, but in my frenzy I dashed into the bathroom (which luckily is right next to my dad's study) and doused my hair in the toilet. The fire had caught in my hair, but luckily it had just caught at the ends and despite my numb mind I had moved surprisingly quickly. My breath came in choppy gasps as the little flame fizzled out. I couldn't imagine what would have happened if it had caught hold of all my hair. . . somehow being bald doesn't quite appeal to me.

 

Okay, I'll start this story all over again. This time it will be the true version.

 

I dropped some matches tonight. I mean, I dropped a whole box of them right on my dad's study carpet. Luckily the box wasn't very full, so it didn't take me long to pick them up, but as I did, I thought, "Wouldn't it be just great if somehow I managed to strike a match on the carpet and the fluffy stuff went up in flames?"

 

And then nothing happened. I finished putting the matches away, and remembered how I used to be afraid of them, in a fashion. In fact, I still remember the time when I was maybe nine and I found a match in the back hall of the Main House. What's more, it was a lone, unlit match, and as I picked it up I was convinced that I had rescued the Main House and everyone in it from mortal danger. That's how cautious I was towards matches.

 

Then I remembered the other objects I used to be slightly afraid of. Afraid might be too strong of a word, but I was rather wary of them, most likely because they possessed power that you had to know how to harness. Like the beaters in our kitchen. For some reason I was nervous to bring them up to high speed, just because, well, I don't know--they're so fast, and what if I lose control of it?!

 

Then of course there was the matter of the vacuum cleaner. I think I was careful to avoid this, until I had to use one for more than just cleaning the stairs. Besides, it was always Clyde's or Craig's job to vacuum the house, not mine. And that is probably why. In fact, my brothers used to torment me with this very same evil instrument. If I was sitting in a room where they were vacuuming, I was careful to stay out of their way. If I had my feet touching the floor, I was in danger, at least according to me. But I was really in danger anyway, because as my brothers approached me with the machine sucking up all in its path, they would lift the mighty head of the monster in front of me, or over my head. Imagine this huge, roaring thing looming above you, wheels spinning like gnashing teeth, ready to suck your hair up and all of the rest of you! And imagine that you're about five years old as this happens. I would squeal in fright, covering my hands over my head and crying for my brothers to stop, and they would chuckle with cruel pleasure, before they finally would release me from my torture. No wonder I was scarred for life over the vacuum cleaner!

 

Fortunately I have long since recovered from my fear of those sucking instruments, but the idea of that huge ugly head leering above me is still enough to give me shudders. Maybe.

 

And I've also had a certain awe for the power of the chain saw. . . . .