Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
Many years ago, during The Dark Ages, a lovely, funny woman named Bonnie tamed my hair. We always chatted happily as she played with my golden tresses.
Bonnie told me this story of a fire, and I've never forgotten it.
When her daughter was a very small baby, Bonnie went to check on her one night and at that very moment, a space heater in the room started a fire and the drapes went up in flames. Bonnie stared at the fire, transfixed. Her partner, Vince, dashed into the room, thrust the baby into Bonnie's arms, and pushed them out of the house.
A neighbor called for help, and as they waited for the firefighters, Vince grabbed what valuables he could from the house and brought them out to the front yard. The thingy is, Vince was naked.
As the fire engine arrived, Vince suddenly realized he was sans pants. The fire had spread, so sensible man that he was, Vince ran through the burning house, ran to the very back of the house to the laundry room, grabbed a pair of dirty jeans out of a laundry basket, put them on, and ran back through the burning house and out the front door.
I'm pleased to report that everyone survived, though the house was pretty badly damaged, and Bonnie had a great story to tell. By the time Bonnie trimmed my golden tresses, the baby saved from the fire was a teenager. She's probably about 40 years old now, and I bet Bonnie is still telling the story.
Why didn't Vince ask a neighbor for a towel to wrap around himself? Why didn't Vince run to the back of the house and dash in the back door, which led directly into the laundry room, if he was so determined to have a pair of jeans?
God only knows why we do the things we do, especially when we panic a wee bit.
Infinities of love,