This looks like as good a place as any to write down some of those family stories that have been dragged out oft too many times much to the chagrin of some. I iterate that these are the facts as I remember them. (I would have reiterated but I hadn't iterated yet) It was a lazy summer day and Henry, probably about 8 years old, was beginning to stir from the luxury of sleeping in. I could tell because I was sitting at the computer just outside of his room and I had heard a bit of a klunk.
It was at that point that he stuck his head out of his bedroom door and said to me, "Mom, there is something wrong with my pillow."
"What is wrong with your pillow, Henry," I responded.
"Well, it's kinda on fire."
Henry's pillow was on fire. A thin, red line of flame was melting Henry's pillow and it was rather suddenly billowing copious amounts of smoke into the house. I grabbed the said inferno and carried it out onto the deck where we liberally applied water until the soggy mass smoked no more.
It turned out that a touch-lamp had fallen off of the night table, onto his pillow and the hot light bulb eventually ignited the pillow that Henry was sleeping on.
I am glad that he had the presence of mind to let me know that there was something wrong with his pillow. I will always think of him as a king of understatement. Next blog you can meet the queen of understatement.
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