Our bedroom’s smoke detector began chirping in the middle of the night. The device insisted the backup battery needed replacement NOW. I covered my head with a pillow, but the eardrum-piercing shriek pierced the down filling.

I grumbled out of the bed and stumbled into the garage. Banging shins and walls with a stepladder, I placed it under the offending detector. A glance revealed that the twelve-foot tall ceiling measured six feet higher than the ladder.

Male bravado overcame common sense. I perched on the penultimate rung and stretched to reach the ceiling. The ladder swayed like a sapling in the wind. My fingers brushed the plastic shell, and I twisted the cover. The entire assembly tumbled out of the drywall, dangling on electrical wires.

The next step in my brilliant plan involved balancing on top of the ladder while inserting a battery into the detector. My longsuffering wife mentioned my advanced age and diminished sense. She expressed a strong aversion to calling 911 in the middle of the night.

Abandoning my machismo midway between floor and ceiling, I reluctantly descended the ladder. My antics somehow jostled the dangling smoke detector into temporary silence, which I assured my spouse was the master plan all along.

Mischief managed, crisis averted, and manhood restored.

The church’s building director brought a 10-foot tall stepladder to the parsonage the following morning. I supervised from floor level as he replaced the battery. Informed knowhow and proper equipment quickly completed the project, but I assured myself that the scene didn’t provide the death-defying entertainment of my previous night’s escapades.

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