Fire

By Bridget

In our yard we had a fire pit that was often used for late night gatherings. Eventually it was ringed with rocks, but at first it was just a cleared area in the grass. Our home was heated with wood stoves, one in the kitchen and one in the living room. We had all learned how to start them and how to keep them going. We burned any garbage that wasn't compostable or recyclable. I liked to test myself at starting the garbage fire by only taking one or two strike-anywhere matches with me to start it, the punishment being having to get more matches. Also every summer our dad would burn the ditches and the slough out back. We would help him by tamping out the fire with shovels if it started going where it didn't belong. I remember burning the slough the night before a test. The fire seemed so intensely powerful, I prayed to it to help me on my test.

One week when I was about 17, Theresa was starting a fire. She decided she needed help so she grabbed the can of gasoline. She was pouring it on the paper and wood when a hidden ember ignited the gasoline and followed the gasoline trail up to the can. Luckily Theresa dropped the can before she got hurt.

A few days later, I was trying to start a fire in the fire clearing, to heat rocks for a sweat lodge. I was having trouble starting it so I went to get gasoline. I had learned from Theresa's fire that I didn't want to use the gasoline can, so I looked for something else to put it in. I found a small plastic honey bear. I poured the gasoline in there and took it back to the my pile of wood. I started squirting the gasoline and of course the honey bear caught on fire. My hand and clothes that I had spilled gasoline on also started on fire. Timmy and my boyfriend were in the yard near me and started yelling, "Drop and roll! Drop and roll!" I chose not to do that, but instead to tear all my clothes off. I never wore bras, so I was left, not in flames, but only in my underwear. I knew I had to get my hand into cold water so I ran toward the house. My parents were in the kitchen, where I'd have to pass them to get to a sink. I opened the door and yelled, "Don't look at me!" This drew their attention to me as I raced past them to the bathroom. My hand ended up being horribly burnt and I had lesser burns on my face from tearing off my burning clothes. My mom made a poultice for my hand. I don't know what she put on it, but it was black and crusty. This was then covered in gauze for a few days. Finally she took me to a doctor, who gasped at how bad the burn was once the gauze was removed. But after removing the poultice the doctor said it was actually healing very nicely.

In the Sand Pit

By Theresa

I usually distrust my perspective; I don’t trust that what I remember is an accurate account of what happened. And usually it does turn out that I did have some detail confused. That’s why I really like questioning, this way I can just question my way through a story to “remember” what happened. But this story I will narrate on my own and from my perspective, whether it may be the correct story or not, it’s my memory. The thing about this story, is that it is one of my earliest memories, thus it is probably littered with inaccuracies and misunderstanding, but I can learn these later.

Mary was having a party; the reason for the party escapes me. It was either for her birthday or for an end of the school year celebration, the latter seems like the right one because I think it was end of May/early June. Anyway she was still going to Catholic school and had invited what seemed to me, the entire 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th grade classes. I don’t know what grade she was in, but I remember I felt very intimidated and a little annoyed by the big people she had brought home. Home was supposed to be the place where we could be ourselves but when all these strangers came I didn’t feel like I was home anymore.

The party had moved out to the sand pit that was right next to a beautiful pine forest. Many of the kids were climbing up the sand “mountains” and taking giant leaps down them. I had warmed up to a couple girls from Mary’s class and was sitting next to them. It was close to sunset on a very nice summery evening. I remember being very quiet and trying to be polite, I wanted to be around them, but not intrude or strive for attention. I listened to their conversation; it was about my sister Molly. I don’t remember what they were saying, but I remember they were comparing the two of us, something about us seeming to be so unalike. I had probably said about 2 sentences the whole time all the kids were there because I was so shy; Molly on the other hand was right in their faces disagreeing and ordering around these kids who had intruded upon our space. It was something I probably secretly wanted to do as well; they were in our home so we shouldn’t be the ones to change our behaviors. But that is not how I reacted; I got scared and acted like a stranger in my home. I recall an earlier time when Mary had a friend over one evening and she and her friend were talking in the bedroom I shared with Mary. I had just finished taking a bath and was planning to change into my pajamas, but was facing a huge dilemma when I found the privacy of my room jeopardized. They weren’t paying attention to me, but it didn’t matter, I could not take my towel off with this girl in the room. I tried in vain to put my shirt on over my towel, but couldn’t figure it out. I was so perplexed about how I would change without exposing my body and too scared to say anything, I just began crying. They noticed me then. Mary asked me what was wrong and when I meekly told her, she told me to change in the closet with the door closed. I was still scared that the girl could see me through the small slit between the door and the jamb.

Anyway, so at this party Molly was being sassy and forward with these classmates of Mary, particularly getting on the nerves of the boys. I was amazed at how she could be so brave and forward with these big farm boys, the girls I sat next to seemed put-off by her lack of fear. I sat with this group of girls on top of the sand mountain feeling confined to the stereotype I had been cast into. I sat watching Molly and seeing her on top of that sand mountain surrounded by boys twice her size and age, yet unabashedly harassing them, she looked on top of the world to me. I don’t know how everything escalated, but suddenly a couple of the boys grabbed Molly by her hands and feet. They hung her midair and began swinging her on the edge of the peak of the sand mound. I remember watching in horror as they swung her writhing body over the peak of the sand mound and released her into the summer evening. It all happened so quickly, but she seemed to be flying off the edge in slow motion. Just like that Molly went from on top of the world to crashing and tumbling quickly down the side of the tall sand mound. I can’t remember anyone running over to stop the boys or scream out in protest. I’m not saying that this didn’t happen, I just can’t remember. This is probably because any other reaction that may or may not have occurred was overshadowed by my mother’s reaction. She was not on top of the hill, and I don’t know if she witnessed what had happened or if someone had told her, but I can remember her running and screaming and swearing and making all sorts of loud and threatening noises as she raced to the scene where her small daughter lay curled in pain and defeat.

The party ended early and I believe I was happy to see them go especially the boys. I remember feeling very disgusted by people and by myself because I had enjoyed being liked by the girls. The thing about this memory is that when I do remember it, it seems like such a horrible, irrational event. It’s a hard story to tell because I don’t understand why these boys threw Molly so violently off the sand mound and I don’t remember the consequences of their actions. But I do have the vision of Molly hitting the ground hard clearly etched in my memory and a strong feeling that I should just remain quiet.

Theresa (on the right) giving Molly looks before she could voice her opinion.