Footprints

“Life is just a short walk from the cradle to the grave, and it sure behooves us to be kind to one another along the way.”

• Alice Childress (1912–1994), American novelist, playwright and actress

The only house I knew my first decade of life lay diagonally across from the plant which supplied power to the campus of the college where my father taught. Along the northeast corner of the plant sat a red brick cylindrical smokestack which, if one stood at the base and gazed up, appeared at times to move slightly. One could become a bit dizzy if one looked too long. The top of the smokestack was perhaps some 30 meters above ground level.

I don’t know if this was an optical illusion but recall learning that the top of the Empire State Building in NYC sways 25 feet from side to side, so it is conceivable it was not completely immobile.

At the base of the smokestack sat an incinerator. It was into this that one of my brothers, 5 years older, cast some rubbish one day. That act probably would have been uneventful had he not thought to add some kerosene to augment the fire.

There is such a thing as overkill. The sudden, unexpected fiery backlash singed his eyebrows and he was compelled to wear eye shadow until the brows grew back.

Fortunately, his vision was not affected and there were females in the house: my mother and two sisters, at least some of whom were conversant with the concept of eye shadow.