Tuesday, November 25, 2025 – Day 469

Tuesday, November 25, 2025

Good morning, everyone.

Nikki and Alex were here last night. Nikki flew in for a quick visit before the big St. Maarten vacation, and Alex arrived hauling the 20-pound turkey we’ll be cooking on Saturday—for six people. Safe to say…there will be leftovers.

We got to talking about childhood stories, and as often happens, one memory led to another. Many stories are worth repeating and I’d like to share as many of them as I can over the upcoming winter months. Maybe someday they will make their way into a book.

Gene and Sally (my parents) entertained in their home often. When we were growing up, it seemed like everybody smoked—evidenced by the bright red lipstick marks on the cigarettes—and everybody drank, as proven by the cocktail glasses scattered around the living room and kitchen the next morning. Their parties were loud, lively, and full of laughter, stretching late into the night.

One such party happened in 1961 at our home at 316 Keith. It was a typical evening: friends, drinks, cigarettes, and more than a few ashtrays. But when the party wound down, the guests helped tidy up and—unfortunately—emptied the ashtrays into the kitchen wastebasket.

After everyone left, Gene and Sally went to bed while all of us kids slept upstairs. They had no idea a fire was already smoldering in that garbage can. It didn’t take long for it to turn into a roaring blaze in the kitchen and dining room, pushing up the front staircase—our only way out. The popping and crackling woke Gene and Sally, and with six kids under the age of five, they instantly understood the gravity of the situation.

Sally ran down the hall, through Bill’s room, and into the triplets’ room (Tom, Tim, and me). She always told this part the same way: she flung open the door, paused for a split second, and counted—three babies…two arms. She thought, “I can’t pick,” and turned back. She crossed paths with Gene and told him to get the triplets while she gathered the older three, ushering them into the front bedroom. From there, she worked with a neighbor, Tom Diver—who had somehow woken up—to pass the kids out the window, one at a time, into his waiting arms.

Meanwhile, Gene rushed into the triplets’ room and found the windows closed—and the crank handles removed. (The triplets had a habit of opening windows in the dead of winter.) With no other option, he smashed a window, placed the first baby (me) onto the flat garage roof, then the other two, and climbed out himself. A fireman brought us down to safety. I ended up with a cut on my forehead—my Harry Potter lightning-bolt scar long before Harry existed. It truly was a miracle that everyone survived.

The cause was the cigarettes, though no one ever proved who dumped them. Gene had his suspicions, and it nagged at him whenever the story was retold. (Sally loved retelling it.) But in the end, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that every single one of us made it out.

There’s a follow-up story to this one, and I’ll share it with you tomorrow.

Have a great Tuesday. Love you guys! ❤️