Summary

Two young brothers, staying at their grandmother's Victorian-style home, inadvertently create a memorable Christmas Eve incident by accidentally dropping a large glob of drool onto the hot furnace while spying on their parents assembling their Christmas presents.

Abstract

The narrative recounts a humorous and memorable incident from the author's childhood involving his younger brother, Brian, at their grandmother's house during Christmas. The home, described as a grand Victorian-style duplex, was filled with large, dark, and somewhat eerie rooms that made various sounds, which scared the boys. On Christmas Eve, the brothers, filled with curiosity, decided to peek through a heater grate to watch their parents assemble their Christmas toys. As they lay on their bellies under Brian's bed, Brian drooled due to the heat from the furnace, and the drool fell onto the furnace, creating a dramatic and loud sizzle. This unexpected event, referred to as the "slobber bomb," startled everyone and became an unforgettable moment in the author's life, overshadowing the rest of the Christmas celebration.

Opinions

The author seems to have a fond and nostalgic view of the family home, despite its intimidating size and sounds.
There is an appreciation for the warmth and beauty of the home, particularly the ornate furnace and the claw-foot tub.
The author reflects on the incident with a sense of humor and endearment, likening it to scenes from Norman Rockwell and Sam Peckinpah, suggesting a blend of idyllic and dramatic moments.
The boys' curiosity and mischievousness are portrayed with affection, highlighting the adventurous spirit of childhood.
The parents are seen as loving and dedicated, working hard to assemble toys on Christmas Eve, despite the interruption caused by their sons' antics.
The author recognizes the incident as a unique and cherished memory, implying that such spontaneous and humorous events are what truly make the holiday special.

The Slobber-Bomb Heard Round The World

With a big dose of Norman Rockwell and Sam Peckinpah.

Boys will be boys. Especially around Christmas. I was eight at the time, and my late brother Brian was thirteen months younger at seven.

We lived at Granny’s house, at 323 50th Street, just down the block from the Newport News Shipbuilding and Drydock Company. The home is still there. Every once and a while we’ll drive by it when visiting relatives.

Child Gibby looks out of the car window and longs to run up and down the stairs, and play football in the twenty-foot square backyard. Child Gibby wants to roll in the grass and get dirty. Adult Gib says to stay in the car, child.

It is a Victorian-style duplex in grand fashion. Two stories with a windowed attic. Twelve-foot ceilings with large rooms and a claw-foot tub. The smallest of rooms had been a study off the master bedroom, with a large window overlooking the street.

It was beautiful, ornate, and scary as all get out to us boys.

Large dark rooms that made all sorts of sounds. Creaking, popping, wind whistling through the old windows. We slept with the large bedroom door open so it wouldn’t be too dark.

It could only happen here.

As was the design when the grand old lady was built, there was a huge oil furnace in the living room. It was the size of an old refrigerator, and just as ornate with its chrome trim. The flue rose straight up to well above anyone standing and then made a beeline out the wall.

Having no ducting, there were heater grates installed on the hardwood floors. Heavy cast iron monstrosities that you could slide open and closed to allow the heat into the areas on the second floor. We learned that if you were gentle enough you could open them with nary a sound.

It was Christmas Eve and very cold. The heater grate in our room was directly under Brian’s bed. And that was directly over the furnace.

We had been told to go to bed and were tucked in.

Mom and dad had chores to do that we didn’t need to see — assembling the toys we would get the next morning. The sound of the tools rose straight up through the heater grate and filled our room. Our little minds full of curiosity were too much for us to bear.

What could go wrong?

Mom and dad didn’t hear our whispers as we decided to look down into the living room through the grate.

We slid under Brian’s bed and lay on our bellies, opposite each other, just our faces over the grate. Slowly we slid the hot grate open. A little, then a little more. Brian’s hands pulled back quickly every time he touched the hot metal.

The glow of light shined up on our little faces as we peered down through the grate at dad below.

I think of this now as a Norman Rockwell painting. Darkness around the edges coming into our little heads silhouetted, and peering down through the golden glow of the foot square grate. Dad standing next to the furnace — and in the painting looking up at us with his horned-rim glasses.

Mom and dad were standing right next to the furnace trying to stay warm as they built our toys.

We could see the front wheel of a bike dad was working on. Mom was just out of view and quickly moving and talking trying to get things done. The sound of wrenches on nuts and wrapping paper being cut filled our ears.

And then it happened.

The slobber bomb was heard around the world. Or so it seemed. In spectacular color and slow motion befitting a Sam Peckinpah movie shot in Panavision, Brian had drooled from the heat coming through the grate.

And a slobber bomb that looked like it was five or six feet long hung suspended in the air below the grate — for an agonizing amount of time.

Tick, tick, tick . . BOOM!

It hit the top of the hot furnace and sizzled like cold water thrown in a red hot cast iron skillet. Then dead silence; except for mom. Mom screamed. Dad looked straight up at our little faces.

Brian and I stared at each other with big round eyes and round mouths with a silent, “OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Cut the camera to me. Back to Brian. Back to me. Back to Brian. Time stood still even more than the hang time of Brian’s slobber bomb.

We jumped from the floor into our beds as we heard Dad at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn’t happy with his sons. I loudly whispered to Brian, “Lay on your side and cover-up, he’ll think we’re asleep!”

It didn’t work. But at eight years old it was worth a try. After a stern talking-to, dad turned to leave, and I’m pretty sure he was laughing under his breath as he left our room.

I don’t remember anything else from that Christmas. Brian’s slobber bomb is emblazoned in my head. How could anything top an act like that?

Nothing ever will, for me.