My two-year-old grandson visited over the weekend. For the purposes of this story, I’ll refer to him as “Bartholomew.” That is not his real name. If I used his real name, my daughter would mount my head on a stick. Then she’d plant it next to the street as a gentle reminder to others of her rule against using his real name on social media.
During his visit, in an impressive lack of foresight, I taught Bartholomew how to turn on the gas fireplace.
In my defense, I figured he’d get a kick out it.
Boy, was I right!
It was a hit. It was thrill. It was a MISTAKE!
At first, it was amusing. The little guy would flip the switch, and announce “Fire!” I laughed. He laughed.
What fun.
He found it so amusing that he did it, again. And again. And AGAIN!
Within minutes, Bartholomew appointed himself Supreme Commander of the Fireplace. (Unfortunate side note: We have TWO gas fireplaces. So he was a very busy boy.)
By late afternoon, my house was several degrees above the Sun’s surface. People’s faces were melting. The cat’s tail caught on fire. You’ve probably seen how native Hawaiians lower a whole hog into a luau pit filled with red hot coals? Let me put it this way – if they tossed that pig on my living room couch, it’d be done in thirty minutes.
I used the last of my energy to crawl to the thermostat and crank the air conditioner to maximum. It was my only hope of survival.
But through it all, there stood Bartholomew—cute, calm, composed—and immensely triumphant.
So if you hear about a recent mysterious weather event in the Eugene, Oregon area, just know this:
I didn’t teach my grandson how to turn on a gas fireplace. I sadly crowned him Climate Master of the Universe.
THE END
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