Don’t you hate it when an old fear raises its ugly head and snarls at you? Me too.
When I was a little girl living on a ranch, my dad would often warn me about playing near the propane tank that supplied our home with needed fuel.
“Don’t play around that tank, it is highly explosive,” he’d say. Which, of course, put visions of a massive fireball in my mind and expertly steered me clear of the scary propane tank.
Such a tank wasn’t necessary when Tom and I lived in Atascadero for 43 years. The city provided a gas line right up to our home, so I didn’t concern myself with propane or its tanks anymore.… Read the rest