Burning Down the House

I suppose I was 11 or 12 at the time, and I apparently fancied myself quite an amateur chemist, since at that moment I was in my mom’s washroom heating alcohol.

(Yep. You’re “ahead of me”).

I had mounted some sort of Bunsen burner thingee under a flask of alcohol, (though I admittedly had no idea then, nor now what I was trying to achieve). But somehow I managed to knock over the flask, and the clear liquid alcohol took on a decidedly blue and yellow tint as it caught fire, and spread across my mother’s washing machine; upon which I had set up my experiment.

I went from amateur chemist to amateur fireman in less time than it took to ruin my experiment. Well, to be fair my dad played amateur fireman, and I mostly cowered in the corner, and hoped for the best.

For as soon as I managed to make a total arse out of myself, and screamed for help, my dad came running out the back door, and in so many words made me aware he wasn’t a happy camper.

Somehow daddy found a way to save the utility room, and ultimately, the house, but sadly, my failed attempt at scientific coolness peeled the paint off the lid of my mother’s washing machine.

I have long since forgotten if, or whether my father grounded me, or bent me over his knee. All I know is I have never forgotten that ridiculous father-son experience, one of the first of many; none of which were quite as memorable or potentially traumatic.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 15. Copyright Volumes 1-15.

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