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xiphiasSo, Father said he had some bookshelves he could give me, to finish of the shelves that go in our foyer, so we could have enough bookshelves to finish shelving our fiction, which would be a nice thing to do while Lis was in England.
But, I should really explain another part of the story, first.
About a month ago, my uncle Bob swung by the office of the family construction business. It was about eight o'clock at night, and he wanted to pick up some paperwork. He opened the door, and flames singed off his eyebrows.
He ran next door to the gas station, and called the fire department, explaining that he was calling from a gas station, and there was a really good fire going on next door, and please do something about it.
They did, and the family business is currently being run out of a trailer next to the burned-out building. Nobody was injured, but, well . . . I just saw the office tonight, and it's impressive. I borrowed Dad's flashlight, and I said, "Hey, Dad, I followed the fire inspectors around our fire and pestered them with questions -- can I see if I can tell where your fire started?"
I looked at the kitchen. "Wow. The fire flashed over, didn't it? The whole kitchen ceiling was burning. Oh, look -- I think the fire started over there, on the back wall -- am I right?"
I was -- Dad confirmed that the point I pointed to was the origin of the fire.
The smoke detectors had melted off the ceiling in the adjoining rooms. The plastic armrests on the chairs in adjoining rooms had melted.
The computers, of course, were quite a bit beyond toast.
The bookcases upstairs . . . well, they're now in our foyer.
They're nice bookcases. If I can manage to get them cleaned up enough to be non-smoky, they will do quite nicely for the rest of our books. If I can't, then I'll just throw them out, unless one of you likes the smell of flame-broiled books.
But, I should really explain another part of the story, first.
About a month ago, my uncle Bob swung by the office of the family construction business. It was about eight o'clock at night, and he wanted to pick up some paperwork. He opened the door, and flames singed off his eyebrows.
He ran next door to the gas station, and called the fire department, explaining that he was calling from a gas station, and there was a really good fire going on next door, and please do something about it.
They did, and the family business is currently being run out of a trailer next to the burned-out building. Nobody was injured, but, well . . . I just saw the office tonight, and it's impressive. I borrowed Dad's flashlight, and I said, "Hey, Dad, I followed the fire inspectors around our fire and pestered them with questions -- can I see if I can tell where your fire started?"
I looked at the kitchen. "Wow. The fire flashed over, didn't it? The whole kitchen ceiling was burning. Oh, look -- I think the fire started over there, on the back wall -- am I right?"
I was -- Dad confirmed that the point I pointed to was the origin of the fire.
The smoke detectors had melted off the ceiling in the adjoining rooms. The plastic armrests on the chairs in adjoining rooms had melted.
The computers, of course, were quite a bit beyond toast.
The bookcases upstairs . . . well, they're now in our foyer.
They're nice bookcases. If I can manage to get them cleaned up enough to be non-smoky, they will do quite nicely for the rest of our books. If I can't, then I'll just throw them out, unless one of you likes the smell of flame-broiled books.