[Cloud]

One day, long ago, when I was about 7 or 8, it was the Fifth of July. You know, the Day After The Fourth of July. The day after we had set off fireworks in our backyard. It was pretty common back then (and legal in Calif).

That morning, I woke up, and, while my parents were having breakfast in the dining room, decided to go play with the leftover fireworks. I was still in my pjs, in this case a lovely pink nylon gown and robe set my sister had given me for Christmas. This was, if you will perceive, before the days of children's fire-retardant sleepwear.

I'll never be certain exactly what happened. For a long time, I thought it was the sparkler itself that set me on fire. But now I think that I simply dropped the match on me after lighting the sparkler.

WHOOSH!

This was also, unfortunately, before the days of "stop, drop, and roll." So naturally, I ran around screaming like a banshee (or a child on fire), fanning the flames. My poor parents--I can't imagine what that must have been like. My father came racing out to the backyard and had to catch me. Stupid me--our backyard had a huge pool in it. My dad probably saved my life that day, by throwing me in the pool, dousing the flames.

They wrapped me in a sheet and drove me to the hospital, where I stayed on and off for the next several months. Multiple skin grafts for third degree burns over one whole side of my torso, from hip to armpit, including my breast. I was lucky. Very, very, lucky--it didn't get my face, and mostly the scars aren't too noticeable.

Now, I'm a smart girl, but what child has much common sense? It only takes a second.