Worthy Witness

The grill and I have a relationship I think.  Like my plants in the garden, I talk to it in hopes that it (they) will comply with my wishes.

Usually, I have to light the grill; my husband nowhere to be found.  I’ve gone beyond the time when the children start to bicker, the adults look wan, and the sun is beyond 12 o’clock high.  The grill does not need a match, it needs courage.  I could ask my son or son-in-law to take care of the lighting, but I know I must overcome this fear that possesses and desires to  inhibit me.

First step is to remove the cover and lift the lid, hoping that no critter has made habitation in its warm, cast iron layers.  “Nothing to worry about,” I convince myself, “the grill is clean, no animals or webs to contend with; no vestiges of winter nests.”

I bend down to turn on the gas, just a little to the left.  “Perhaps too much,” I think.  I turn it to the right a little.

Instantly, I unfurl myself, turn the lower knob to high, hold my breath and silently pray, hitting the start button.  “Snap.”  Nothing has lit.  I quickly turn the knob to off, turn the gas to the right in the off position, and question what might be wrong.  I check the gauge.  “Full.”  I remember it was my husband who had changed tanks last fall.  Were the connections intact?  Looking over the crowd of hungry family in the gardens, I hesitated to call anyone over except the man who made the connection, and he was nowhere to be found.

Sensing that time was not on my side, I started again, reviewing each procedure as I ventured forward.  “Gas:  knob a little to the left, perhaps a little more this time.”  Check.  “Lower knob:   high.”  Check.  “Ignition switch:  snap.”   Mission on target:  fire in the hole.   I turned the top knob:  high,and  closed the grill.  Smugly walking through the crowd, I announced, “Grill’s on.”

Inspired by Steve E’s story, Father’s Day, No. 30.