I don't remember this, but my mother told me about it.
When I was a baby, I rolled my walker up to the Christmas tree, and grabbed one of the bulbs, and it must've burned me, but instead of letting go, I angrily crushed it, and cut up my hand.
And I didn't even cry.
Sounds like something I'd do.
And thinking about it, it's kind of the central metaphor for my life.
Reaching out toward the light, trying to feel it, trying to discern its source, pushing on through the heat and the pain, stubbornly trying to get to the bottom of it all, committed to the course right up until the literal breaking point.
Stubbornness in the search for truth right from the beginning.
Heh.
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I TOO WAS BURNED BY A CHRISTMAS BULB! In my squirt-hood. I remember mine, though.
Some genius (I'm lookin at you, Dad) had the bright idea to rig OUTDOOR lights on the indoor tree. You know, the plumb-bob shaped and sized kind, not the twee twinkly kind. The twinkly kind don't get warmer than the metal on a freshly fired lighter at worst. The plumb-bob kind . . .
Ooh, but it's so purrrrty . . . and, just like you, I reached out and grasped it with my fat defenseless thin-skinned little rugrat hand.
BIG owie. Those suckers spent their remaining Christmases stapled to the eaves in the freezing cold, thank you very much.
Well, in retrospect, I probably saved the house from eventually burning down thanks to those bulbs.
YAAAY! We're Christmas heroes! :D
Yep, that was the kind, all right.
Plumb-bob/Strawberry shaped.
Molten hot, and razor sharp glass.
We had an even nastier kind that were mini-lava lamp type things with a bubbling liquid.
A wonder that place didn't burn down....
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