There was a hole in the kitchen floor, in the house where we spent our childhood. It was over by the stove, about the size of a quarter, where a pipe had previously been. We used to throw things down this hole, and look at each other through it. I'd try to spy on John through it. (This didn't work very well, because the hole was right next to the wall. So, unless John was standing in that very corner of the basement, I couldn't see him.)
One day John and I had a fight, and he was really mad at me, for some reason. He went into the basement and called up:
"Renae, come and look down the hole."
I did, and he hit me in the eye with a broom handle. No provable permanent damage, so I'll forgive him.