Thursday, November 3, 2011

The First Time I Died (as related to me by my parents)

I was two. The sun was shining, and I stuck a fork in an electrical socket. I was not a smart baby. I jammed the fork in the socket, which was just under an open window --it was late May, and the day was warm-- and flew across the room, slammed into the cabinet holding the "good" china ware, and fumped to the ground. My hair sizzled, my mother dropped the glass she was putting into the cabinet (it shattered, but she always wore slippers) and dashed to my side. As she tells it, I lay there, smoking, hair sizzling, not breathing for a moment. Then, the smoking and sizzling stopped, and I opened my eyes and jabbed forward with the fork again. My mother cried, yelped, and hugged me to her wet apron, and my father, when he heard the news laughed and said, "Devil's luck, I tell you." My father was a math teacher at a community college. He and my mother made a good couple. As you'd imagine, they're dead now.