The Day I Almost Burned Down the House

Long ago on a quiet Sunday afternoon, back in the olden days of the 1950's, when I was only 9 years old, my parents wanted to go across town to visit my aunt and uncle. That meant that I and my 2 year-old sister would have to go with them, because in 1957, as far as I knew, it was unheard of for a 9-year-old to be left home alone.

But on this day, I desperately did not want to spend a boring afternoon with my aunt, uncle, and teenage male cousins. Especially the cousins, with whom I had nothing in common. Besides, during our previous visit, the older one had thrown a shoe at me, and the younger one scared me to death by laying a giant snapping turtle at my feet.

I was an obedient child; I always did what my parents asked of me. I promised to be good if they let me stay home, and I absolutely meant it. No thoughts of mayhem danced in my head.

Besides, we lived on the 2nd floor of a 3 decker tenement, and the neighbor on the 3rd floor was home that day. It was like having a built-in babysitter for emergencies. I imagine Mrs. Falco being home upstairs was the only reason my mother agreed to allow me to stay home alone. What could possibly go wrong?

My instructions were to sit and read a book or watch television. I had every intention of obeying those instructions, but I got a little bored.

What could I do to alleviate the boredom? Of all the adventures a 9-year-0ld could conjure up in her head at the prospect of a whole afternoon without parental supervision, boredom wasn't one of them. What to do? What to do?

Then it came to me. I could bake a cake with my new baking set! I took out the as yet unused set and excitedly mixed up the cake batter ingredients that came with it. Wouldn’t they be surprised when they arrived home to a freshly baked homemade chocolate cake?

Although never given specific instructions on how to use the stove or oven, I had watched my mother often enough to have confidence that I knew what to do. I went to the gas stove and turned on the oven. I walked to the other end of the kitchen and thought something didn’t seem right. I had forgotten something. Oh, yes, I then remembered that when my mother turned on the oven, she lit a match, and put it into the oven to light the pilot light. You have to remember that this was a long time ago when gas ovens were not automatic. There I was, 9 years old, lighting a match, bending down, facing the open oven, and putting the lit match into a cavity that had been filling with gas since I had turned it on about 2 minutes before.

KABOOM! Everything went black in front of my eyes, and it sounded like the entire house exploded. I had no idea what had happened, but I was smelling something burning, which turned out to be my hair and eyebrows. Actually, they were no longer burning; they were disintegrating. I was too shocked to scream, but Mrs. Falco bolted down to our apartment in total panic. After checking me from now singed head to shaking toes, to make sure I wasn’t on fire, she immediately called my parents. At that point, I was more afraid of what my mother would do to me for my disobedience than whether or not I was French Fried.

My parents raced home in record time and were so glad that I was alive, they did not even scold me for disobeying their orders.

My little sister stared at me in wonderment, maybe the first, but not the last time she would bear witness to one of my misadventures.

It was 20 years before I touched another gas stove. By then, they were automatic with no need to light a match to turn on the pilot light. It did not matter. I never turned on the oven unless my husband was home to supervise. Now, 64 years later, I still will not light a gas barbecue grill.

I did learn a valuable lesson that day. Maybe, just maybe, parents have good reasons for their rules.