Congrats to DW Davis

I was four. My memories of the day are based on stories I’ve heard.

My mother and father were proud of their new house. Previously, we’d lived in a second floor apartment in Abington.

My father was proud of the charcoal grill he’d bought. To give my father a chance to use his new grill, he and my mom invited folks over for a cook-out.

Mom and Dad purchased several steaks. Everything was going well. Guests arrived, Mom gave tours of the house, and I played in the yard.

Then came time for the steaks to go on the grill. The charcoal burn had down to a bed of coals. The steaks were put on the grill.

My father, having forgotten the tongs he needed, ran into the kitchen. While he was gone, I wandered near the grill for a look at what was going on.

The steaks were on fire. Flames leapt up on all sides of the meat. If I didn’t do something the steaks were going to burn up.

There was a pile of sand near the driveway. With handfuls of sand I put out the fire.

When my father came out the kitchen door, I expected him to praise me for putting out the fire. Let’s just say he wasn’t happy. Expecting to be the hero, I was anything but.

Afterwards, everyone laughed about it, and assured my dad they enjoyed the hot dogs as much as they would have the steaks.