A short story. I have a paint pot I inherited from my dad. It a good old fashioned steel one, pros don’t paint out of a can of paint. When younger my dad was a teacher and one summer made a living painting the high parts of barns in Iowa. The farmer would start but get up high, get scared and quit. My dad would get a premium for the high part. He was doing a place at the peak of a barn and some pigs knocked the ladder out from under him. He was near where a beam stuck out for a pulley and rope and grabbed the beam and screamed for help. The farmer heard him and got the ladder under him. He had been hanging onto the paint pot the entire time. He dropped it when he grabbed the ladder. The paint pot got a dent, the paint went all over the farmer.
Every time I use or look at that paint pot I remember why I hate heights. It happened over 70 years ago before I was born. Of course I’ve shared that story with my wife and kids, at least three or four times each.