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.