But an overactive imagination is not always an asset, especially in lines of work like bomb specialists, or police investigators.
Last month our gas stove died a few days before Thanksgiving.
The timing couldn’t have been worse because Jilda had a fresh turkey breast as big as a basketball sitting on the counter, and it was the main course for her family’s Thanksgiving Dinner later in the day. She’d turned the oven on, and then scurried around collecting spices, fresh herbs, and other ingredients used to make her baked turkey a masterpiece.
When she leaned over to slide the turkey into the oven, it was as cool as an icebox.
That’s strange, she said. She fiddled with the knobs, and tried again. Something’s not right, I heard her say with more than a little panic creeping into her voice.
I hustled outside to check the gas level in our propane tank but it was practically full.
We moved quickly to Plan “B”, which was calling all our kinfolks who live nearby to find a working oven.
You’d be surprised at how many folks don’t cook these days. After the third call, we found an oven to use, which saved the day.
Later that evening, Jilda began researching stoves as if she were writing a thesis on culinary preparation. She found a stove that had all the features she wanted. With the swipe of a credit card, the oven was ours.
I contacted our nephew Haven who is a plumber and gas man, so he put us on his work list. An overactive imagination is not a strength in his line of work either.
The next afternoon he knocked on our door and soon we were busy hooking that baby up.
Most of the installation went off without a hitch. All the burners sprang to life as expected, but when he turned on the oven, something wasn’t right.
All of a sudden I smelled smoke, and it was not the new-oven smell. Something was on fire.
My imagination leapt into action. I was thinking not just house fire, but a conflagration that would level our entire community. I imagined news trucks and helicopters filming the carnage nonstop.
I’d have to notify neighbors, fire departments, and possibly FEMA.
My mind raced, ticking off a list of things that I should try to save. I thought first of getting our dogs to safety, my computer so I could save my data, pictures, music, and all the words I’ve written in the past 50 years, my guitar, and, and, and ....
Haven, on the other hand, realized it was probably something small that had fallen through the cracks near the oven burners.
A few seconds later he took his pliers, reached into a bowels of the oven, fished out a smoldering piece of cardboard about the size of a playing card, and tossed it into the sink.
I felt a little foolish, but thankfully I didn’t mention to Haven all the things that had coursed through my mind.
But then my imagination stepped in and I realized this little episode would be perfect for this week’s column.