My 15 y.o. son, on a whim, put the head of the deer he or my husband shot this weekend into the woodburning stove in my sunroom. I have no idea why he thought that was a good idea.
I heard his 17 y.o. sister saying, “I can’t believe you did that! Gross! How could you do that? What were you thinking?” and other such phrases, so I called them back to my room to ask what was going on. Both of them were at the stage where they just thought this was silly, so they were engaging in further silliness before I could get to the bottom of things. When I was finally told what he had done, I told him to go and get it out, and get it out of the house, too.
He said, “But mom, I have these things called fingers, and my fingers are made of skin, not stainless steel, I can’t. It’s too hot already. It’ll be fine after a couple of days.”
I might have shrieked. I know I said, “We have these things called tongs. Get grilling tongs, and gloves if you need them, and get that thing out of the fire. Put it in the coal bucket and get it out of the house.”
“But, why?” He asked.
I might have made strange strangling noises. I know I said, “Because I do not wish to have my home reeking of the mortuary. Go. Get. It. Now. Out. Out. Out.”
As I sputtered, he left the room, and he had the nerve to complain of the stench. I had him shut the door behind him.
Rules my mama never told me I’d need to make: Do not put the deer head in the wood burning stove inside the house. We do not wish to have the house smelling of the crematorium.