In our sixty three years of wedded bliss, my wife and I raised three boys and a feisty darling girl.

Our daughter, Susan, married a successful  piano playing attorney, a real swell guy, and they have raised, and home schooled, eight wonderful children. Five girls and three boys. The youngest being a sweet little girl, Martha. Grandchildren can be either a bane to your existence, or the greatest thing ever to happen.

Having set the cast of this story, I’ll get on with it!

Susan had dropped Martha off for my wife to baby sit, while she attended a bridal shower.

I had spent the last eighteen hours engaged in a large warehouse fire on the edge of town. A facility full of general merchandise.

As Captain of an engine company, I was given orders where to set up my lines to work the fire. I had a crew of four firefighters, and getting them set up to do their thing, here in the middle of the night, was exasperating enough, add  the noise of exploding what ever, the smell and heat, and by the time the job was over, it was midmorning. I was beaten!

I’m dog tired, dirty, smell like smoke, and need to eat something. Anything!

I get home, bathe, grab a bite, and flop in my “broke in good” easy chair in front of the TV.

I discover the local stations have been carrying the fire story all night and are still on it.

About the time I get settled in, Martha comes to me, stands in front, between my knees, and just looks up at me with a terrible frown on her sweet face.

Sensing a problem, I asked her, “What’s wrong, Honey?”

She looked up and serious as could be, asked, “Popaw, was TV this messed

up when Lincoln was shot?” ——

Suddenly I wasn’t tired anymore!



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