I was about five years old when this story takes place.  I grew up in a crappy apartment in Anaheim, California–a few blocks from Disneyland.

I was sitting at the kitchen table coloring, which was a rare thing in my house because mom didn’t like us coloring in the same place we ate.  She said that the wax of the crayons would somehow taint the flavor of our food.

My mom was having trouble with the oven.  The pilot light wouldn’t light.  She had the gas running for a couple of minutes before she decided to grab a match and try to light the pilot herself.

She climbed into the oven and struck a match and a huge ball of fire engulfed her.  She screamed and ran to the bathroom where she jumped into the tub (fully clothed) and turned the water on.

She was fine; she only singed her eyebrows.  But to this day I have trouble opening the oven.

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