A fire gutted a home in the 2200 block of Fairland Ave. in Buechel late Wednesday afternoon after the owner tried to melt icicles off gutters with a blow torch earlier in the day.
This is one of the headlines for today's Courier Journal. I grew up in Buechel, partied with the West Buechel crowd, bought my first house in Buechel Terrace, bought my second on the outskirts of Buechel, and still do most of my drinking, shopping, and socializing in various and sundry Buechel establishments. In all those years, Buechel has provided many moments of dubious pride but I'm not sure that any have quite reached the heights of such a WHAAAAAAT???? moment as this.
I have many questions. First, how does one even begin to believe that melting icicles from a house with a blow torch is a good idea. Broomstick to smack them down? Sure. Let the sun do its job. Easiest way. Knowing many Buechel boys, even sticking your kid up on the roof via ladder to knock them down wouldn't surprise me. But a freakin' blow torch?
Secondly, exactly how do you set your house on fire, not notice it, and leave only to return to house-all-gone?
Third. Why go small? Wouldn't a flamethrower have been even better?
Sounds like another meth lab disaster. Nice excuse for somebody that is related to an elected official or the like. Good job, Jim Bob. Jeff Foxworthy ain't got nuthin' on u.
When does fat stop being something we all coo over and become something we ridicule? At what point does that cute little buddha baby turn into the fat kid everyone teases. Why is a round jiggly belly only acceptable on Santa Claus? Why doesn't anyone ever come up to a grown up, pinch a bulging cheek, and exclaim "Oh, how adorable"? When do three chins stop being something to chuck and become just an unsightly crumbcatcher? When does it stop being fun to blow raspberries on a poochy little abdomen? Why do those little rolls of fat on our thighs go from "Aw, isn't that cute" to "Ew, gross"?
About the age of 3 maybe... Ok, I am obviously bored and in desperate need of something productive to think about.
Well, I don't know about Rudolph, but I ran today. My first official race. 5K in a somewhat respectable 42:14. I am so proud of myself right now (and sore and tired). I never believed that I would ever actually be able to do this. Even at the starting line, I was pretty sure EMS would be called or I would end up puking and hitching a ride back in a golf cart. I believed it even more when I hit the last hill from the Belle's dock back up past the Galt House on Third Street. That hill was HUGE. Once I hit flat ground at the top though, the rest seemed almost easy. There really is an adrenaline rush when people you pass congratulate and encourage you and then when you turn the corner and see the finish line.
I know just over three miles doesn't sound like a lot to most people but having spent more time than not over the past four years undergoing cancer treatment and surgery after surgery, it is a gigantic accomplishment for me. It means I am "on the road" to health and well-being both literally and metaphorically. Yay me!
Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday and that saddens me. As a child it ranked right after Christmas as a favorite. I can remember my eyes growing as big as that drumstick I coveted when I looked at the table crammed full of food. I remember the happiness I felt having my whole family together. As the youngest, I loved having my big brother and big sister home for dinner. We often had special guests too: missionaries, friends from church, assorted boyfriends and girlfriends. Thanksgiving was the beginning of a month full of surprises and secret shopping and hints of good things to come. It was a day of relaxing and comfort and getting to help in the kitchen. Jokes and hugs and conversation. Long naps and newspapers and sparkling bathrooms. A day of fine china and real glasses and silver platters.
Over time that has changed. All us kids got married and had families and some moved away. For a while, everyone tried to make it home but it became a question of logistics and people seemed harried and rushed. As Mom and dad grow older, the cooking and cleaning become less of a joy and more of a chore. The heavy stuff doesn't get done and things are a mess. Mom forgets sometimes what she has already added when she cooks so tasting is an adventure. She is reluctant to let us help. We've tried to take the burden away by bringing food and helping with the house but always feel like we are infringing on territory not our own. Or flat out told not to. We've offered to do dinner elsewhere but she says she'll cook whether we are there or not. People have begun staying home and cooking for their own.
That's not the worst though. Thanksgiving weekend in 1999, my brother was killed in a senseless accident. No holiday has been the same without him but Thanksgiving is especially hard now. It is full of bittersweet memories and hints of anger because he was taken from us so early. I know I've written about him before. I talk about him often and try hard to be grateful for the years I had him and the wonderful times we shared - my first Derby (the 100th), my first concert(Rolling Stones, Freedom Hall 1973), my first motorcycle ride (age 7). I've never had heart to heart talks with anyone like I did my big brother. He never made me feel like a pain-in-the-ass little sister even though I was twelve years younger. He let me sit on the basement steps when his high school band practiced. He made me meatball pizzas in the middle of the night after he came home from a date. He picked me up and took me to the hospital when I sliced my foot open. He confided in me as an adult and came to my rescue any time I needed help.
So, today, I will go to my parent's home with only one of my children and eat a dinner in mostly silence and sadness. Faces will reflect the tiredness of time and grief and too much work. There will be strained conversations and a rush to be done so we can disappear into corners with the tv or computer or recliner. The dog will be the only excited face, hoping to catch a bit of dropped turkey or to lick the leftover gravy pan.
Tomorrow I will make my annual pilgrimage. I'll go shopping for toys. Saturday, I'll visit the site of my brother's death and then stop at the firehouse to donate mu purchases to Toys For Tots in his name. I'll tell the fireman who lets me in that my brother was riding home after a Toy Run when he was hit and killed and that this was his favorite charity. For a moment, someone besides me will know what an unforgettable wonderful man he was.
TwistedSister