Once supper was over, I washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. My husband Arnie left the house once he finished eating. From the window over the sink, I spotted him walking into the shed where he kept his boat. Golden evening sunshine streaming into the dining room and living room windows made me feel happy and content. I loved the longer, warmer days of spring. I was reaching into one of the cabinets to put away kettles when I heard the back door slam. Arnie walked into the living room.

Having finished my evening chores, I strolled through the dining room, sniffing appreciatively. The scent of our delicious supper still lingered in the air. We’d had one of Arnie’s favorite meals; potatoes, pan fried in my trusty old cast iron skillet, kielbasa, and Van Camps pork n’ beans. I came to a sudden halt when I reached the living room. My husband was sitting on the sofa. He had his fishing tackle box on a small tv table in front of him and was sorting through the fishing supplies.

 I exclaimed, “Arnie, what in the world are you doing? And why would you do that in the living room?”

My husband defensively replied, “I’m going fishing on Saturday, and my tackle box needs to be cleaned and put in order. I thought I’d do the job here so I can watch television as I work.”

Dropping into a chair across from the sofa, I warned, “You’re going to be in big trouble if you drop a fishhook in the carpet and I end up stepping on it.”

Arnie promised, “I’ll be careful.”

The next day I cleaned the house and vacuumed the living room in preparation for having my daughter Tammie home from college for the weekend. Figuring she’d arrive late Friday afternoon since she was hitching a ride with a friend, I decided to run a few errands after work before going home.

I heard Tammie screaming the minute I unlocked the back door. Rushing into the living room, I found her laying on her belly in the middle of the carpet. “Help me!” she demanded. My mouth dropped open in amazement. A fishhook from Arnie’s tackle box was tangled in the carpeting. Its sharply hooked end had completely gone through one of my daughter’s finger pads, effectively preventing her from being able to get up to call for help.

Using a scissor to cut the hook from the carpet, I frantically questioned, “How did this happen?”

Tammie ignored my question to snap, “What took you so long to get home? I wanted to watch television after my ride dropped me off, so I laid down on the carpet to stretch and relax. Then I got hooked!”

At the hospital’s ambulatory urgent care department, the doctor cut the barb off the hook and pulled the curved metal out of my daughter’s very small, soft finger.

On our way home, I repeatedly apologized to Tammie. “I’m so, so sorry about what happened. I didn’t think Daddy had lost a hook from his tackle box. I even vacuumed the floor yesterday, and never saw the hook. I hope this doesn’t make you not come home for visits!”  

One of the next times my daughter came home, the weather was lovely, so we decided to grill our supper on the back deck. As I prepped food in the kitchen, Tammie offered to start our gas grill for me.

The grill we had was supposed to self-ignite when turned on. If it didn’t, we had to quickly light it with a match or turn it off. If you didn’t do one or the other quickly, the escaping gas would be dangerous. I forgot all about this problem with the grill until I heard a loud, “Woomf!” and a scream.

Rushing out to the back deck, I found Tammie with no visible burns, but the hair around her face was curled up and crisp. Eyebrows, lashes, peach fuzz on her skin were all reduced to ash by the flash of flame. When the grill hadn’t ignited, my daughter had lit a match. Unfortunately, it took her too long to toss in. The build-up of gas turned into a fireball at the first spark.

Tammie had an open tracheostomy at the time, so there was concern for her airway. Once again, we took a trip to the ambulatory urgent care department at the hospital. Given a clean bill of health, we soon were allowed to return home. Her hair would grow back.

In the car, I apologized, “Tammie, I’m so sorry. I feel terrible!  First, we hooked you. Then we cooked you! I don’t know if you’ll want to come home to spend weekends with us ever again!”