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The Day I Nearly Burned My House Down

Rhona Lewis

We had barely cleaned up from Pesach, when the furnace in the basement in our home in Toronto began to give us trouble. It stopped working twice, but Dad managed to fix it. The third time it stopped working, it made such a loud boom-bang that the wooden floors shook. I heard Dad running down the stairs, past my room and down the steps that lead to the basement. I ran right after him.

Wednesday, May 09, 2012

fireI raced down the steps faster than a spark of fire and forgot about the hole in the carpeting of the last step. My foot caught in the hole and I fell onto the floor. Dad, who was hammering at the furnace swung round.

“Shimmy! What ya doing?” he shouted. Then, more gently, “Are you okay?”

I nodded and put my grazed arm behind my back. I’m always racing around and I often fall, so I’m used to scratches and bumps.

“That bang was a big one,” Dad said. “We may have to replace the furnace. Luckily, it’s been a little warmer the last few days, so we won’t miss the heating that much.”

“You can’t fix it, Dad?” The smoke that was coming from the furnace made me sneeze four times in a row.

“Well … maybe we’ll try one more time this evening,” Dad said, starting up the stairs. I followed him, sneezing all the way.

I was excited. I love watching when Dad takes out his toolbox and starts fixing things. Actually, I do more than help. I’ve learned a lot from my Dad, and I’m a big fixer myself.

 

 

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