As newlyweds, every time that my husband took a business trip out of town, there would be a death in our family circle!  Thankfully he wasn’t on the road too often, but nonetheless we lost a lot of elderly relatives and friends during our early years together.  

Once the kiddies arrived on the scene, things shifted.  They just couldn’t understand why Daddy wasn’t home some nights, and when he would return.  One memorable trip Bill called home; I was proud that I had all of the kids settled and accepting of his short absence.  I put our oldest son on the phone with him, and – as luck would have it – young Bill chose that moment to have a complete breakdown.  “Daddy!  Come home!!!” he wailed.  Needless to say, that put a stop to Bill’s calls when he was away.  

Typically, life gets more complicated as time goes on.  I learned many new skills during Bill’s few trips away.  I found that I could kill spiders when necessary.  And I completely lost my lifelong fear of thunderstorms once it was imperative to calm the kiddies instead.  But one trip took on truly biblical proportions . . .  I call it our “flood, fire, and pestilence” event.

Bill was gone for about a week.  The kids were all in school, I was working full time, life was good.  Until it rained.  And rained.  And rained.  Our finished basement flooded, and I discovered that, aside from the ear-splitting noise, I could vacuum the water out of the basement without too much inconvenience.  It was an unfortunate incident, but I smiled because I was managing so well.  

Two days later, the school nurse called me at work.  One of my sweet children had a close-enough encounter with a classmate to receive the gift of lice!  A trip to the school, a trip to the drugstore for special shampoo, and many loads of laundry later, my rose colored glasses were still intact.  

The day Bill was returning, I planned a special dinner.  A large roasted chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetables, rolls, the whole scene!  The gravy was my downfall.  While I’m a fairly good cook, I get poor marks when any kind of grease is involved.  Deep fryers frighten me more than scary movies.  But I just continued on as if I knew what I was doing . . . skim the broth and use it as a base for luscious homemade gravy.  I’d never seen it done, but I had read about it.  What could be so hard? 

It was nearly dinner time, Bill was due momentarily, and I began the gravy procedure.  Suddenly my stovetop was aflame!  Kids were screaming, and I found myself grabbing the fire extinguisher and spraying it over my special meal!  When the smoke cleared, there was no real damage beyond a melted exhaust fan, but our youngest, Sarah, was missing.  We found her in the back yard, practicing the “stop, drop, and roll” she had learned in school!  Bill arrived in the midst of all the confusion, and we just had to laugh.  I have no recollection of what we cobbled together for dinner that night,  but it wasn’t roasted chicken.  Now my gravy always comes from a jar.