A Hot Breakfast
Hank Frazee
CEO of IntroSource | Author of The Saturday Morning Post, Referral Upgrade, and Before We Say "Goodnight"
“There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child. There are seven million.”
Walt Streightiff
One of my earliest memories happened at breakfast when I was about two and a half. My dad was out of town on a business trip, and my sister and I were having breakfast with my mom. My sister, Mary Ellen, must have been about five. I was sitting in my high chair, as usual, at the kitchen table.
My parents loved antiques, and we had a round oak table in the kitchen, where we ate breakfast and most all of our meals. It was covered by a tablecloth, embroidered with brightly colored flowers. My mom was hurrying to get us fed in order to get Mary Ellen off to kindergarten.
My mom put a piece of bread in the toaster, which was on the far side of the table. Then, she heard the trash truck coming down the street. My dad had asked her to be sure to put the trash cans out the night before, and she had forgotten. She jumped up, telling Mary Ellen to watch me, and ran outside. Well, the moment she went out one door, Mary Ellen, being an active kid, went out the other.
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And I sat there alone, eating my oatmeal. That is, until something strange began to happen. Smoke started to come out of the toaster. At first, it was just a little wisp, but it caught my attention. It went straight up, like one of those ropes that comes out of a snake charmer’s basket. As I watched it, the smoke grew darker and wider. Pretty soon, smoke was coming out from under the toaster. And that’s when the table caught fire.
Luckily, I wasn’t that close to it, so I just kept watching it to see what would happen next. Suddenly, I heard a terrible scream, which scared the heck out of me, and my mother came running and grabbed me out of my high chair. She unplugged the toaster, ran to the cupboard, and grabbed a pitcher. She filled the pitcher with water and threw it on the fire, as horrible hissing sounds and a great plume of white smoke filled the room.
I didn’t get my piece of toast that morning. But, for quite a while after that, if you looked under the tablecloth (which I often did), you could see a big, black spot where the toaster had been.
-Hank
"A Hot Breakfast," from The Saturday Morning Post, at hankfrazee.com