Highly Flammable

 

9/16/26

Remember the chair I so proudly assembled? The past several months, it had developed a bad squeak. Every time I leaned back or moved, it made increasingly loud noises of the type that drive me crazy. Fortunately, I had saved the tiny L-shaped screwdriver that came with it. I tried tightening all the screws, but that didn’t help. Maybe WD-40?

Googling gave me the answer: Silicone spray. I came home from the hardware store with a can of one of the most toxic, hazardous products I’d ever brought into the house. Highly flammable! Do not smoke while using! Avoid inhaling or contact with skin! Use only in well-ventilated area! Ingestion may cause death! So many dire warnings!

It took me a while to mentally and physically prep for the dangerous operation. The screws had to be loosened so that the threads could be lubed with the silicone. I did that, then put on a pair of disposable gloves, spread newspaper on the floor near the open front door, and had a rag handy for possible drips (as advised by the instructions). Finally ready, I went to open the can – and the cap wouldn’t come off. Unscrewing didn’t work, and the cap was slightly tapered, so getting a grip on it to pull up was impossible.

Fine. I walked to the hardware store again. The young man who helped me gave the cap a slight push sideways, and it popped right off. Kind and cheerful, he never made me feel stupid, but I did anyway.

I walked home in tears, partly because I felt like an idiot. Mostly, though, it was just one more of a million things I took for granted. If I had complained about the squeaky chair, Greg would have said, “Hold on, I got this,” and dashed downstairs for the appropriate tool and toxic substance. Ten minutes later: “There you go. All fixed.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Thanks, sweetie. Then, now, and every time in the future that it happens again: Another way to miss you.