I suppose, before I do any 'fessing up about my days as a latch-key kid, I probably ought to give credit for the impetus for this post to whom it belongs...the beautiful (and I am not joking, I have some of the most gorgeous writers living in my computer and she is one of them!) Bejewell. After reading this post, I knew I had dovetail off of it and get all this kiddie-guilt, purged once and for all.
I'm also aware that these admissions of guilt about certain acts committed by a certain someone may very well get me disowned by my parents. I'm willing to take that risk.
Not only was I a child of the late 70's and 80's, I was the poster girl for latch key kids everywhere. Both of my parents worked and for about an hour before school and two to three hours after school, I was rockin' the sofa at home. Oh sure, I had chores I was supposed to be doing rather than watching reruns of I Love Lucy, Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, Family Affair or The Monkees. I was supposed to come straight home after school, get my chores done and then my homework, and possibly after all that was completed, then maybe I could go outside and play, or watch TV. Occasionally things didn't exactly happen in that order.
I could not have been more than 10 or 11 when The Marshmallow Incident took place. My mom had stopped smoking only a year or two before this, but we still had lighters tucked in various places around the house...like the top of the fridge...behind a bag of marshmallows. Originally I was only trying to reach the bag of marshmallows that sat way up high atop the fridge. I just wanted to snaffle a few of them and then I'd get on with the business of my chores and homework. Just one or two marshmallows would satisfy me. Now, how to go about getting them down from way up there? I stood on tippy toes and reached, extended my fingers as far as they would go and... nothing!. They were completely out of reach. So I grabbed a fork out of the bright green (Everybody remembers that green, the 70's green, right?) dish drainer on the counter and once again, stood on my tippy toes and all that attempt accomplished was getting the fork stuck on top of the fridge.
The harder I tried, and then failed, to get to the lovely, soft, sweet marshmallows, the more determined I became. I don't know why it didn't occur to me to drag a kitchen chair over to the fridge and stand on it, but it didn't. What did occur to me was a set of BBQ skewers. They were long, very long and had two tiny pointy ends. Better yet, they were easily in reach -just resting against one side of the stove. One of the skewers would work perfectly.
I stood upon tippy toes once more, almost certain by this point that all of this standing on my toes would certainly get me into any ballerina school, and lanced the bag of yummy, jet-puffed marshmallows. I remember reading the words, "Kraft Jet-Puffed Marshmallows" and picturing someone standing behind a big airplane with flat marshmallows and then the pilot gunning the plane's engines and a "Marshamallow Man" in a crisp white uniform, standing there with arms full of marshmallows - inflating them with the blasts from the jets. Don't mock me! It's how my wee brain worked back in the good ol' days.
At some point my brain made the connection between the BBQ skewer in my right hand and the bag of marshmallows in my left and I decided right then and there that I needed not just marshmallows, but roasted marshmallows!
I set the bag of marshmallows and the skewer down on the kitchen table and went in search of a lighter. I was able to easily find one on the top of one of the bookshelves that lined one wall of the living room (yayyy for shelves that I could climb!) and set my plan into action. Once I had the lighter in hand, I placed it in my jeans pocket so that I wouldn't lose it.
I grabbed the bag of marshmallows, the skewer, and the lighter and walked into the living room and climbed into my dad's huge leather recliner. I think it's important that you remember the words, leather recliner.
I sat cross-legged on the light brown leather recliner and set the bag of marshmallows in my lap so that I could open it. Once I had the bag opened, I placed the skewer in my left hand, reached in and grabbed a marshmallow and proceeded to pop the first one in my mouth. Then I grabbed another and placed it on the end of the silvery skewer point and reached deep into my pocket for the lighter.
Not once did it ever occur to my pea-brain that what I was about to do could potentially be dangerous. All I was interested in was a roasted marshmallow and stuffing that hot, ooey-gooey goodness into my face.
I flicked the lighter on and held it under the white blob. I just sat there and held it like that for what seemed an eternity. Then something unthinkable happened...all at once the entire marshmallow was engulfed in flames. I sat there, mouth wide open, with what looked like a flaming tennis ball on the end of a stick. So, I did what came naturally. I waved the flaming marshmallow frantically to and fro, back and forth, side to side; all the while flinging bits of red-hot marshmallow lava across the living room, onto the green carpet (what was the big deal with green back then?) and down, down, down in slowwwwww motionnnnn onto my father's leather recliner.
In my mind the memory of that ill-fated marshmallow plays back in slow motion...the realization that these pieces of molten marshmallow were now burning holes into my father's precious leather recliner. The utter fact that my ass was probably going to be as red hot as those burning sugary embers, sat in my stomach like a lead balloon.
I shot out of that leather recliner like a dwarf out of a cannon, sending a spray of jet-puffed marshmallows into the air. I ran around the living room stomping on smoldering pieces of burnt marshmallow, probably looking a lot like my beloved I Love Lucy in the episode where she was stomping grapes into wine. Thankfully the tiny bits of burnt carpet could be covered if I moved the furniture ever so slightly in towards the center of the living room. Surely my parents would never notice. By the way mom and dad...did you ever notice the furniture looked a little "off", after that? Or did you just attribute it to your growing family only making it seem like the living room was getting smaller?
It was then that I noticed a very peculiar smell that hung in the air - like someone had baked sugar cookies but put them on a plastic baking sheet, in the oven. It was the carpet that was giving off this awful smell and I knew if I didn't do something about it, the smell would be a dead giveaway. I ran into the bathroom and grabbed an entire bottle of Jean-Nate (remember that stuff?), that had, up until then, been coveted by my young self. I'd begged and begged and begged my mom to buy me a some, and she finally gave in and bought me a bottle for my birthday.
I opened the precious yellow bottle of Jean-Nate Body Splash and commenced splashing (well, "splash" was what one was supposed to do with it!) that stuff around the living room like a Priest with an aspergillum, tossing holy water around at an exorcism. Well except for the fact that I didn't have an aspergillum and the end result was not the sort of "calm after a storm" feeling one might experience after an exorcism. But it sure smelled a whole hell of a lot better.
Once I manged to get the acrid smell of burning carpet covered up I remembered the leather recliner. Oh shit!
Mercifully, I found a lovely brown and beige afghan that my Nana had crocheted for my father and threw it over the back and one arm of the recliner...the very same arm that had a very small, albeit noticeable burn hole. I thought the plan was genius, but then again, I was the very same brain-trust that thought roasting marshmallows in the house, in a recliner, was a good idea to begin with.
Later that night when both of my parents returned home from work there was inevitably a discussion with a preteen about how it's not appropriate to bathe in body splash to the point of being able to smell it outside. My mom also said something along the lines of how God-awful smelling that stuff was and had she known how badly it smelled she would never have gotten it for me in the first place and now knew better. Well Mom, anything is bound to smell bad when mixed with the stench of burning carpet. Just thought I'd mention that...30 years later.
When my dad sat down that night the afghan slipped backwards, off the arm of the leather recliner and the inevitable happened...HELLO! BIG FREAKING BURN HOLE IN THE ARM OF THE LEATHER RECLINER.
He asked me what happened, to which I replied, "I don't know, maybe back when mom was smoking she burned a hole in it?"
Well dad, now ya know...and so does the rest of the world, what really happened to your leather recliner. Something tells me that you never did really buy the story about mom possibly burning a hole in it. Especially not when there was sticky white residue around the edges of the hole.
I am thankful for the fact that I didn't burn down the house when my desire for a roasted marshmallow overcame what little common sense I possessed back then and I am also really thankful that I finally 'fessed up to this when I live, conveniently, 2500 miles away...besides, I'm too big to spank anyhow.
P.S. The Latch-Key Chronicles - The Turkey That Would Not Be Killed, hits the blog the first week in November!
Don't forget, during the entire month of October, to support the fight against breast cancer, Barking Mad is in the pink! For every comment left on each post, we'll donate a certain amount to Susan G. Komen for the Cure®. Read more about it here!
