So I though you ought to know, after all that stuff about my dad's careful calculations with the dynamite, that there is an ending to this story.
By now, you probably know that my dad died of colon cancer when I was thirteen. He'd been struggling with his disease for almost two years. When I was eleven, the whole family went into a different mode of living. We did only what we needed to do. It was a miracle that I still got to the library and piano lessons. All home improvements stopped. My brother mowed the lawn and we still maintained the weeds. But you should know that my dad didn't have any extra energy for projects around the house. Oh, he tried to go to work, but sometimes they brought him home early.
The dynamite he had hidden was forgotten. About eight years after my dad died, my brother decided to help my mom out by cleaning out the garage. My dad had never been the neatest person, though he always knew where he had last put something. My mom just wanted to find basic tools. I heard about this cleaning and clearing when I came home from college before my brother headed off to a new job out West.
My brother found that dynamite, seven and a half sticks of it, all sweaty and expired, in a wooden box labeled 'DYNAMITE.' It had been hidden under the work bench. My brother and I had sharpened knives on a stone there, soldered parts back together there, and generally chopped, sawed, and nailed stuff back together there. We hadn't thought a bit about any banging or showers of sparks or vibrations. Sometimes being oblivious is a blessing.
So, that day when my brother was cleaning my mother's garage, he had to call the police department. They called the bomb squad. When they arrived, they evacuated the entire street. Men with Kevlar shields took the expired, sweaty dynamite wherever you take such things in a small town. I wouldn't be surprised if it went back to the munitions depot.
They left behind the box labeled 'DYNAMITE.' Somehow, I ended up with the box. I love that box. I put dried flowers in it.
Thank you for listening, jb
By now, you probably know that my dad died of colon cancer when I was thirteen. He'd been struggling with his disease for almost two years. When I was eleven, the whole family went into a different mode of living. We did only what we needed to do. It was a miracle that I still got to the library and piano lessons. All home improvements stopped. My brother mowed the lawn and we still maintained the weeds. But you should know that my dad didn't have any extra energy for projects around the house. Oh, he tried to go to work, but sometimes they brought him home early.
The dynamite he had hidden was forgotten. About eight years after my dad died, my brother decided to help my mom out by cleaning out the garage. My dad had never been the neatest person, though he always knew where he had last put something. My mom just wanted to find basic tools. I heard about this cleaning and clearing when I came home from college before my brother headed off to a new job out West.
My brother found that dynamite, seven and a half sticks of it, all sweaty and expired, in a wooden box labeled 'DYNAMITE.' It had been hidden under the work bench. My brother and I had sharpened knives on a stone there, soldered parts back together there, and generally chopped, sawed, and nailed stuff back together there. We hadn't thought a bit about any banging or showers of sparks or vibrations. Sometimes being oblivious is a blessing.
So, that day when my brother was cleaning my mother's garage, he had to call the police department. They called the bomb squad. When they arrived, they evacuated the entire street. Men with Kevlar shields took the expired, sweaty dynamite wherever you take such things in a small town. I wouldn't be surprised if it went back to the munitions depot.
They left behind the box labeled 'DYNAMITE.' Somehow, I ended up with the box. I love that box. I put dried flowers in it.
Thank you for listening, jb
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