I was English, or perhaps of recent English heritage, living in an inherited house, multi-storey on a deep, narrow lot, on the outskirts of London. I had a nine-year-old son, Caleb, and my wife was about, somewhere. Interest or investment income was paying the basic bills (just) and I was making money for frills by purchasing whole lots of household goods at estate sales then refurbishing and reselling them. My specialty was repairing not-quite-antique electrical appliances for upscale city-dwellers into 'retro' furnishings. Caleb had just discovered the power of electricity through curiosity about what was under the electrical tape of a spliced extension cord. He and a friend were having a great time applying the bare ends of the wires to various objects in the room. Somehow the wainscoting around the fireplace in the sitting room caught fire and they were arguing about who was in charge of handling emergencies while the flames really got going. Caleb was reluctant to scoop water from the large salt-water aquarium to douse the flames, but as they stood in the doorway trying to remember where the nearest bucket and water source were, the aquarium burst, extinguishing the fire.
There was a brief cartoon-like episode where Caleb demonstrated how he could fold himself into a box shape. He was all scrunched-up, with flat sides, and remembered his head was sticking out and then grinned and pulled it in, like a cubic turtle.
I had a vivid memory of driving on a country road in the Midwest during a storm. I pulled over and a tornado was coming right down the road at me. I moved the car a little, away from the roadside slope and ditch, then the twister hit. A section of barbed-wire fence fell across the car and a broken power line fell on the fence; I could see sparking through the windshield, inches from my face. I cut my left thumb very deeply pulling the wire from the car.
I went to the greenhouse-like enclosed patio at the rear of the house and exited through an open window, using the white-painted steel framing to lower myself to the garden. At the rear of the property was a small house facing a small street, a sort of mews house, that I sometimes let. There was a rectangular area in the mews house's front garden, about ten by fifteen feet, that had been dug about a foot deep, the soil used as fill dirt somewhere on the main property. I realized for the first time that this was quite unsightly when viewed from the mews and that I'd have to see to remedying it. I returned to the main house, climbing the greenhouse frame to the open window in a series of complicated gymnastic moves, swinging my legs sideways, then up overhead while twisting, steering my feet through the window and ending up standing on the deck inside, facing the backyard. The white paint was very thick and the last hold was very challenging due to the 'give' of the paint.
Inside I reflected on the fact that I was doing the same thing 'home' in England that I used to do Stateside and, adjusting for cost of living differences, making pretty much the same money and leading the same slightly-threadbare life.
Consulting some kind of statistical household expenses listing I found that Caleb was a popular name in England nine years ago.