Back when I was growing up in the little log cabin by the river, we had this huge 25-30 cup plug-in pot that kept hot water available all the time for coffee, tea, or hot tang – whatever anybody wanted. The pot was kept on the kitchen counter, tucked back against the wall, but the chord had to be run across the floor under the table to get to the plug-in – so it was always a safety hazard that had to be minded.
One day my little brother, five years younger than me, forgot about the chord and tripped over it. That whole pot of boiling hot water came down right on top of him, scalding him really bad.
He was probably 8 years old at the time, which would put me at around 13. Mother was at work, and I don’t remember where the rest of the kids were, so that means that Reed and I were alone there that day.
Reed was, understandably, screaming in pain and shock – so I did the only thing I could think of doing. I grabbed him and thew him off the front porch into the snow bank down below, figuring he needed to be cooled off quickly. This seemed like the best way to do that.
However, just exactly at that moment, my mother happened to drive up. What she saw was Reed screaming bloody murder and me throwing him off the front porch.
“No, really Mom! I was helping him!”
Right… I’m sure she believed me.
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