This is the true story of how I died. I swear. Mama always said not to believe anything you hear. Daddy said if it’s in print it has validity. My death was in the Baldwin Register, Saturday, February 19. “Woman Dies When Stove Tips On Her. ” I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t read it with my own eyes.

Sergeant David White who investigated the calamity said my death was thought to be accidental. If I had been asked, I might have said that Harley could have done it.  He was my third husband. Allen never would have done it. He’s my current husband, and he’d give his own life for me.  Terrance Earl could have done it when he was so mad after I kicked the refrigerator in and trounced out of the house singing “Forever Goodbye.”  He was Husband #2. None of that, however, was the case.

The Coroner, Huey Mack Sr. put in his two cents about the matter.  He said “it appears the deceased fell on the door of the oven while it was open, which in turn made it lean on top of her.”  And if that wasn’t enough he had to elaborate about the supposed demise. “Basically,” he said, “the stove burned the woman and pinned her down so she couldn’t breathe.”

I couldn’t breath all right.  When I picked up the morning paper in front of my house and saw my smiling face right there on the front page and read I was dead, I was more than breathless. I was, as you might say, truly burned up.  Here I was minding my own business as usual, and I find myself dead.

The description of my purported termination was positional asphyxia and thermal injuries. Of all the things I can think to die of, I must admit that this never occurred to me. And it’s pretty gruesome too. I know that at age 62, my bones could be brittle enough for me to break a hip and die in surgery.

A few years back, I might have died of lung cancer if I hadn’t been saved by a faith healer in Biloxi, Mississippi. I might even have killed myself.  I tried that once. Rolled up the windows to the car, put a brick on the gas petal and lay down in the back seat waiting to be transported to the Great Beyond. My sister, Peggy Sue came by and rescued me. I’m glad too, because that good-for-nothing, mule-headed son-of-a-gun I was married to wasn’t worth a broken fingernail, much less my life.

18,048 deaths have been attributed to household accidents in the past seven years. Those statistics were printed in the paper. I didn’t make them up.  33 percent of those are due to falls.  No wonder Mama always said to look where you’re going.  Old people have to take care not to fall down stairs or trip over their dog in the middle of the night.

At any rate, I wasn’t back in my house good before folks started arriving. Ginger was knocking on the door with chicken and coleslaw before 9:00 a.m. Ina Marie brought a squash casserole. Caroline has cheese straws and pecans she’d picked up at the Nut House.  I try to tell myself that the names of the dishes weren’t indicative of anything. People in lower Alabama are big on grief food. My friends thought they’d comfort my dear distraught husband, but when I met them at the door, there wasn’t a one of them who didn’t scream.

Some folks don’t think seeing is believing and doubted I wasn’t dead even when I was standing before them. Peggy Sue kept reaching out and touching my arm. “Is that you? Is that really you?” she kept saying and  palpitated my flesh like she was a veritable artist at massage.

“Nah,” I said.  I’m “Prissy Lou.  Missy’s long lost twin. Sis and I look alike don’t you think?”

PS has been a friend for fifty years. We used to double-date and neck out in Hubert’s corn field when we were in the 11th grade.  “You could sue the paper,” PS said.  “It’s not enough that they said you’re burned up in the oven. They put a picture of you on the front page to prove it.”

I think I ought to set the record straight about my life. Here’s my story as told by me to a lot of people, some who listened and some who didn’t.  I loved my husbands. All of them—at least for a time.  And even though I’ve passed through the 50s and have had my share—and then some—of failed nuptial flourishes, I still believe in love.  I got married for the 7th or 8th time last July. It’s hard to keep track.  Mr. Right came straight up to me in the flea market while I was selling a 1960s settee and stuck a head of silver hair prettier than any angel’s halo right in my face, and you know what happened? Damn, I fell in love.

Mary, my second best friend, not the mother of Jesus, doesn’t believe I know “Right” when I see it – but what does she know? I mean, really.  One body can’t approach another body and pretend to know what’s right regarding its feelings and intentions.

Now this here’s the truth, and it signifies my attitude toward life. Five years ago, Dr. Block removed a tumor. Mary came to the hospital and brought me frozen yogurt, and whether or not Dr. Block or Mary or the yogurt was the cure, I was fine up until I married  Harley, married for the—what was it—the seventh time.  Anyway, shortly after that knot was tied, another tumor turned up in my lung. I flew out to Colorado to see my son for the last time and tell him goodbye. Then I came home and had all these high falutin’ tests – CT scan, body scan and the like, and it was determined I had two tumors in my right lung, one 11 centimeters.  That’s went I got in my Buick and drove over to Biloxi, and like a miracle up popped a sign about a healin’, a revival.  I stopped right on the spot and went and stood up before a contingency of fire eaters. They sang and they prayed and they laid their hands on my head, and when I went back to my doctor just a month later, the little tumor had gone and the big one had about disappeared.  The doctor said “let’s wait a month and see what happens.”

Now that I’m supposed to have died with my head in an oven, it’s important to get things straight in my life, say thank you to all the people who have been good to me and maybe forgive some of the ones who haven’t.  If I don’t go to Heaven and go to Hell instead, it will be a lesser flame. At least I know it won’t be hotter than that oven.

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Val Note: Accepted before 750 word count restriction took effect…  It’s a great story.