I waited until now to tell you this story because it happened last Christmas, and the weekend was so achy that it has taken me this long to get my thoughts together.
Here’s what happened: I was having that cliché day that we all talk about. It’s Christmas. Most of the daughters, their whining and useless husbands (I say that with great affection), and our beloved (but screeching) grandchildren are all here. Our house, which has the same birthday as I do, has no basement, nor does it have a garage, which means I have no tools. To enter our boiler room, such as it is, I have to go outside and yank on an out-swing door. So that’s what I did. I don’t know why I opened that door. I just did. And besides, it’s Christmas. What could possibly go wrong?