I HAD NOT fathomed that holocaust deniers existed until L sat me down for a history lesson. I was 23. L was in his early 50s.

“Hitler was a great man,” he lectured. “He never sent any Jews to their death. That was all propaganda to create sympathy for Jews.” But there are films and photos, I protested. “Hollywood fakery and special effects. The Jews control Hollywood, you know.” There are eyewitness accounts! “All liars or paid off by the Jews.” The Diary of Anne Frank! “A forgery.”

Incredulous, I kept rebutting until L abruptly ended the conversation. “Just shut up!” he exploded,  storming from the room.

Over time, I noted the many “newsletters” that L took. Some claimed to reveal what really went on in government. Others offered sure-fire ways not to pay taxes. There were whackadoodle cures. There was an endless parade of get–rich–quick schemes. He fell for them all.

Mind you, he was a good guy. Loving, generous. Just a bit lacking in the critical thinking department. At least, I reassured myself more than once, people who believe this kind of crap are scattered, relatively few, and relatively harmless. 

Little did I know that, only a few years hence, we would have social media, which in turn would allow nutty thinkers to find one another, grow their numbers, and spread their influence.

And here we are.

We can blame the social media to an extent. More so, the blame lies with how people think. Or, rather, fail to think.

One day I wisecracked about baldness to my then–biggest client. He was a chrome–dome, but then, permit me to direct your attention to the above photo of my own chrome dome, snapped but minutes ago. I figured if anyone had a right to wisecrack about baldness, I did.

But then, not all chrome–domes appreciate the use of their pates for comic material, and from the manner of his prompt frown I immediately gathered that he numbered among said not all chrome–domes.

That night I couldn’t sleep. Not for fear of losing his business—he wasn’t petty—but for fear that I had been thoughtless. The moment I arrived at work the next morning, I phoned him. “I feel terrible,” I said. “I shouldn’t have made that baldness wisecrack. I was out of line.”

He replied, “Sorry to disappoint you, Cuno old boy, but I’ve been desensitized for decades. Once I asked my barber why he charges me the same amount he charges customers with a full head of hair. He said he gives me a discount, and the rest is a finder’s fee.”

I slept better that night.

YOU PROBABLY know that about half of house fires start in the kitchen. Well, I recently held up my end by setting ablaze the countertop of my kitchen island.

​How, you ask, how? I’ll tell you. Sheer stupidity.

I wish to take this opportunity to disabuse you of mistaking me for someone smart enough to have kept an extinguisher on hand. This, despite having made a mental note to obtain one after listening to Episode 228 of the delightful Built to Go podcast, wherein host Jeff Wagg addresses the topic.

Before continuing with my present-day kitchen saga, permit me to back up a little over 60 years to a time when I, a friend, and my older brother Pete were walking through the pine forests of Lake Luzerne, a quaint, upstate New York resort town where my grandparents had a summer cabin. My friend and I were eight-ish years old, so Pete would have been 11-ish. Finding ajar the front door of a nearby, long unoccupied summer home, we decided to enter and explore. The home had no power, so Pete rummaged about the kitchen, where he found a candle and matches, and, unfortunately, a small can of lighter fluid. Having difficulty lighting the candle, he deployed the lighter fluid upon it and, in the process, upon the kitchen counter. Then he struck a match, and the counter went up in flames.

My friend and I grabbed brooms and hurried outside. Pete hurled burning objects out to us, which we beat with the brooms. This tactic was not the smartest. It was, after all, a pine forest. Its floor was a carpet of dry pine needles. As we toiled away, visions of racing for our lives through a forest engulfed in flames—and knowing we were the cause of it—terrorized me.

Then inspiration struck. Pete grabbed a mat from the kitchen floor and used it to smother the flames. Disaster had been averted. Eight-year-old I stood—and present-day I remain—amazed at the young lad’s resourcefulness. 

(I wish I could tell you we tucked our tails between our legs and left. Nope. Pete relit the candle and we explored the house. I never said we were smart kids.)

Now, back to the present day and my kitchen.

“Thanks” to that childhood experience, I had an idea. I happened to be wearing a bathrobe over sweats. I whipped off the robe and used it to smother the flames. 

The realization that some six decades ago we could have been responsible for burning down that vast, lovely forest haunts me to this day. Now I add to that the harrowing realization that, had I not happened to have been wearing a bathrobe and happened to have had that childhood experience, I could have burned down my home, quite possibly my neighbors’ homes, and a good many magnificent Oregon trees.

Later that day, I bought fire extinguishers.