Mishap could have long-lasting consequences

I began with the best of intentions.

There was a carton of sour cream that had somehow glued itself to a shelf in my refrigerator. (If it appears I am trying to completely dodge any responsibility for what follows, you are a quick study.)

I tugged and pulled and pried and couldn’t budge the darned thing.

Never suspecting disaster was moments ahead, I cleared the shelf of all of the remaining detritus. I even tossed out a few things, which isn’t easy for the daughter of Depression-era parents.

The sour cream was still firmly affixed to the shelf, so using it as a handle (in hindsight, I know this is where things began to go wrong), I slid the shelf forward.

In my defense, I did support the glass shelf with one hand while still holding onto that darned sour cream carton with the other and transferred the whole sticky mess to a nearby counter.

I’m not exactly certain what happened next, but evidence would suggest I was holding only to the sour cream carton as I attempted to ascertain how permanently it was attached to its ooey-gooey base.

Not permanently at all, as it transpired.

Suddenly and without giving me ANY warning, the sour cream carton and the shelf parted ways.

Gravity immediately stepped in (as gravity does) and the shelf crashed to my kitchen floor, bursting dramatically into at least 97 million pieces (possibly more … that is an educated guess).

Tempered glass, I learned, is designed to break into bits that are more chunk-like and less shard-like, a plus when there is a border collie eager to help with clean-up.

I removed the dog from the scene. I swept. I swept again. I vacuumed. I even used those special attachments designed to reach places that I’ve been told some people clean regularly, like beneath major appliances.

Convinced I had rounded up every fragment, I began mopping.

Clink. Clink. Clink. That is the sound made by tiny bits of wet glass as one mops.

In the days that have followed, I continue to find glass chips.

I am now convinced that the remnants of this shelf will be like the confetti flung with reckless abandon by two 4-year-olds in my house on New Year’s Eve of 1999.

Twenty-three years later, confetti still lurks in dark corners.

When I am old, I will not be surprised to see a bit of this glass winking its evil eye at me as I shuffle through the kitchen.

I will nudge it to the side with my walker before I go straight to the refrigerator to eat a spoonful of sour cream right out of the carton.

It will be a taste of … um … sour revenge.

Betty Williamson could currently house a four-tier wedding cake in her fridge. Reach her at:

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