Aftershocks of a ghastly explosion

I could feel a violent rumbling under my feet!

When a ghastly explosion rocked the back side of our second-floor apartment, it seemed like I was standing on the San Andreas fault when the ground shifted causing catastrophic death and destruction during the San Francisco earthquake of 1906; and I fully expected to find a gaping hole where our kitchen once stood.

Although the heart of the home was still intact when my siblings and I dashed from our respective sleeping quarters at the opposite end of the one-bedroom unit to assess the damage, Grandma Farrell sat at the small dinette table dazed and confused with singed eyebrows after attempting to ignite the pilot light to bake some scrumptious baked goods for her grandchildren.

Immediately after the maternal grandmother leaned over the open oven door to strike a match, a great ball of fire burst from the cooking appliance with a powerful shock wave which caused her petite frame to be tossed across the tiny room like a flaming projectile.

Since my sisters and I had a three-day weekend away from the humdrum routine of book learning and our brother John was home from college for the summer, Mom and Dad felt that it would be prudent to have a little adult supervision to referee our squabbles of sibling rivalry while they were otherwise engaged in the daily grind of life.

However, I’m quite certain my parents never expected that either one of our glorified babysitters would wreck the most havoc, thereby causing a disruption to the entire apartment building.

“Grandma Tippy-toes won’t listen to reason,” announced Pappy Farrell as he finished reading the most recent issue of the Ellwood City Ledger. “Considering she went flying across the room after that unforeseen mishap, I told her that we should head to the hospital and have her seen by a doctor; because she could’ve easily broken something.”

“Pappy definitely knows what he’s talking about,” I reasoned while articulating the absolute necessity for a trip across town. “Due to the fact that you were just thrown around like a rag doll, I would feel a lot better if we made certain that everything is still in proper working order; and we all know that I’m an expert when it comes to the emergency room.”

“My eyebrows will grow back soon enough,” confirmed Grandma Farrell after feeling the few strands of hair which remained on the ridge above her eye sockets. “If everyone would stop fussing over me, I’ll get back to making these tasty chocolate cupcakes; but I need to sit here and catch my breath for a minute before whipping up a batch of icing.”

Are you really going to make me call my mother at work?

Shortly after the God-fearing woman changed into more appropriate attire for an unexpected visit to the local trauma center, the freckle-faced teen quickly did the same before heading out to the parking area to drive the bright yellow 1975 Chevy Impala – The Banana Boat – around to the front of the multi-family dwelling.

“What on earth is going on up there,” questioned the downstairs neighbor when she stepped into the dimly lit hallway to inquire about ear-splitting disturbance. “After hearing that deafening boom that sounded like stick of dynamite, I thought the whole building was going to collapse; and I was about ready to call the fire department.”

“Our gas stove is being temperamental,” divulged the rising college sophomore as he quickly descended the staircase on his way out the main entrance. “When my grandmother attempted to restart the pilot light, the built-up gas inside the oven knocked her across the kitchen; so, we’re going to take her to the hospital and have her examined.”

“Heavens to Betsy,” gasped the elderly woman.

While the two youngest members of our family agreed to stay behind to notify Mom of our whereabouts when she arrived home from work, this high school senior accompanied my lifelong roommate and our grandparents to the Ellwood City Medical Center on the opposite side of town in the ginormous four-door sedan.

Immediately after crossing the Ewing Park Bridge, I began singing the theme song to Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood – Won’t You Be My Neighbor? – as the young man behind the wheel slowly navigated his way through the tree-lined streets of the Ewing Park section in the mid-size industrial city north of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

It had only been a short two years since the newly licensed driver sideswiped a parked car in the same general vicinity as he casually put his hand out the window to wave to Mr. Gene Rogers – one of our favorite substitute teachers at Lincoln High School – while cruising through the picturesque neighborhood.

“There’s no need for any colorful commentary from the peanut gallery in the back seat,” quipped John while flashing me the stink eye from the rearview mirror.

Due to the fact that I had yet to acquire my own state-issued identification because of my big brother’s reckless driving habits, this blue-eyed brownie breathed a sigh of relief when we pulled into the hospital parking lot without having another one of his outlandish fender benders.

Upon checking in at the registration desk, I escorted the family matriarch to a private triage room inside the emergency department where a conscientious nurse treated her singed eyebrows with antibiotic cream and bandages; after which an attending physician completed a quick examination before sending her to radiology for a chest x-ray.

Following a considerable amount of time, the good doctor reappeared in our temporary quarters to share the good news with us.

“The x-rays look good,” declared the third-year resident after giving a thumbs up to put my grandmother’s mind at ease. “Other than your singed eyebrows, I think you’re good to go; but you should probably take it easy for the remainder of the day.”

All we had to do now was to get back home in one piece!