For Want of a Match

The red tip fell apart as it struck the worn black edge of the box. It simply crumbled, so that nothing was left except a bare wooden stick without a flame. It was my last match.

My fingers were not frozen, as the character’s fingers in Jack London’s “To Build a Fire” were. The man tries so desperately to get his matches to burn. His feet are wet, his fire was doused by falling snow from the tree above, and he grasps a whole bunch of matches in his frozen hands in an attempt to light them. He succeeds in lighting the matches; but they all fall into the snow, extinguishing, leaving him to an icy death.

Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Match Girl faces a similar fate. She is not alone in the Yukon Territory like the desperate man above. She must sell her matches before she goes home, however, or she will face a beating from her father. She lights match after match to stay warm on a wintry New Year’s Eve, until finally her grandmother comes down to take her up to heaven. Her frozen body is found with a burnt bundle of matches in her hand and a smile upon her face.

I was only trying to light a candle. That last match was for want, not necessity.

Do you remember when you learned how to strike a match? My father taught me when I wasn’t more than seven or eight years old. I had to learn to be sure and quick and to strike the match firmly against the black strip, then move my fingers away from the flame quickly lest they get scorched. I soon become the family candle-lighter. I would light the candles we had on our dining room table in the evenings before dinner, which added a nice little touch to our family meal.

I used to have a stockpile of matchboxes. Matchbooks from weddings, white with little gold bells on the front, the happy couple’s names embossed on the cover. Boxes of matches from bars and restaurants, free advertising placed in the ashtrays. I would take them even though I didn’t smoke; I had plenty of other uses for a good box of matches.

It is now illegal to smoke in restaurants and bars in Illinois. Matchboxes, to my dismay, have all but disappeared. Including from my kitchen cabinet. I scrounged around and found a long-tipped, liquid-fueled lighter.

Lighting candles with a lighter just isn’t the same. There’s not that satisfying scratchy feel you get when lighting a match. A lighter doesn’t have that same, good sulfur-y smell. My aunt always keeps a book of matches in the powder room next to her kitchen. A good guest, after using the facilities, will light a match, the overpowering smell the whole purpose of lighting that match. A lighter just wouldn’t do.

I suppose I’ll have to give in and go buy some matchboxes instead of getting them for free.

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Cleaning the Gutters

I looked with trepidation at the wobbly ladder. Ed was showing me how to raise and lower the creaky thing. He leaned it against the roof and said, “Be careful.” I grabbed onto the sides and placed my right foot on the first rung. I looked up and took a second step. The aluminum ladder, which had looked so solid in Ed’s hands, now looked like thin metal spires heading up into the clouds. As I took a couple more steps, the ladder shook and rattled against the aluminum gutters. I retraced my steps and quickly got back on solid ground.

“It’s really shaky!” I told Ed.

“That’s the nature of an extension ladder,” he calmly said.

Ed’s calm statements infuriate me.

The other week, I consistently heard a squeaky noise when I backed up the van. I asked Ed what it could be.

“I don’t know,” he calmly said.

See? Infuriating!

He gave me the number of an auto shop he thought we should start using; it would be cheaper to go there than take my van to the dealer. Ed actually knew that pesky squeak was probably the brakes. I called and made all the arrangements, including having a friend take me to pick up my car when it was ready.

After spending most of the day without a car, my friend came to drive me to the auto shop. As we were driving, she casually said, “Oh, my husband takes care of our cars.”

ARGH! Inwardly I seethed. Back when I was single, I had always thought it would be nice to have a husband who would take care of my car. This hasn’t transpired. Logically thinking, I know why my husband doesn’t take care of my car. I’ve always done it; he has to work and I stay home; it’s not that big of a deal. I won’t even go into the time Ed forgot to call me back when I was stranded in a Walgreen’s parking lot with car trouble.

I did get a husband, however, who takes care of the gutters. Why in the world would I want to climb up that extension ladder and start cleaning gutters myself? Because I wanted to see the new roof and new gutters that I had chosen on my own. Ed’s long hours at work left me in charge of calling various roofing companies to get estimates. I had compared different types of shingles and gutters. I considered roof vents and chimney covers. I wanted to get a closer look at the roof I chose.

I grabbed the sides of the ladder while Ed calmly held the side and started stepping up. Once I got up to the gutters, I looked at the roof.

It looked pretty much the same as it did from the ground.

I began throwing the leaves out of the gutters and onto the ground. Ed puttered around the yard, doing other work that needed to be done. By the time I took the ladder to the back of the house, I was moving it around and up and down like a pro.

Noisy car? No problem. Clogged gutters? Got it. There’s a water shut-off valve in my bathroom that doesn’t work. I’m going to calmly tell Ed we need to call a plumber.

up on a ladder
It was windy up there!

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