A Stick Situation

That Hor is up to it again, so I was reminded about another childhood mishap that my family still does not let me live down. It involves me, a stick, a fire, and total annihilation of my grandfather's toolshed. So, let's go back, back to the carefree days of 1979. It was summer in Texas: hot, humid, and neverending. I was 8, and my older brother, cousin, and I were at my maternal grandfather's house in East Texas near Cedar Creek Lake. Papaw had some acreage and built a little house for he and Granny some time before after he retired, so we were always thrilled to get the chance to stay for weeks in the summer time. I was the youngest and only girl in our little family gang that summer, so to say I was a tomboy was an understatement. It also meant that I was constantly tortured by my sadist brother and cousin. They would shoot at me from behind trees with BB guns, laughing maniacally when I would run in circles screaming getting scatched up by tree limbs trying to get away from them. Ah, such love between family members, eh? That summer, my grandfather was building an addition to the house. He and his contractors had cleared the area of trees for the planned addition, including removing the stumps, so there was a big pile of tree parts that my Papaw intended to burn. He'd been building up the idea of a bonfire to us all that week, so we were super psyched. We had bugged the shit out of him all day since the contractors had left, and so after dinner he finally told us it was time. As we looked on, he went to the toolshed and took his gas can out. He came over to the pile of trees, which was about 3 feet high but with a diameter of somewhere around 6 or 7 feet, and threw a little gas around the pile. We all stood about 5 feet away as he threw a match on our bonfire and it began to burn. Once the burn became steady, he allowed us to get a little closer. My brother grabbed a limb from around the edge that had a smoldering tip, and of course, my cousin followed suit. Then I watched them go to the gas can and pour a little gas on the tip and return to the fire to to "light" the end. Of course, this all occurred when my Papaw took had to go inside for a minute to take a piss. I also want to explain that this was one of those old, heavy metal cans with the word GAS in red letters. As the two boys started playing Star Wars with their sticks, I went to the edge of the fire and grabbed my own stick with a smoldering tip. Now don't get me wrong. I'm no pyromaniac, but there is something that is mesmerizing about fire. My Papaw came out the door yelling at me to get back from the fire, which I did immediately. Then I watched him take the gas can back to the toolshed just as my smoldering tip was dying. So, like my brother and cousin, I went to the gas can. Only, I didn't pour the gas because the can was too heavy for my puny 8 yr old body. I could tip it just a little, so I just touched my dying but still alive smoldering tip to the gas can spout. All of the sudden, there was fire on the tip of the spout! Needless to say, I ran my ass out of there as fast as I could! As I'm running toward my grandfather and the boys with my smoldering stick, I start yelling that there is a fire in the shed. I swear, it was like a movie where the main character gains information just by the reaction of the people she is looking at. Just as I reached them, I heard a huge "whoosh!" and everyone's mouth fell open. I turned to see the shed completely engulfed in flames. All I remember about the next part is a lot of screaming, cursing, and the water hoses from the front and back of the house. Luckily, the shed wasn't too large, and so my Papaw was able to put the fire out without having to call the local volunteer firemen. While all this was happening, I swear I didn't move from the spot I was in. Once the shed was reduced to a mere charred skeleton, my brother, cousin, and Papaw came back over to me. I quickly said, "I didn't do it!" to which all three looked at me, and then looked at my right hand. Yes, I was still holding my stick...which still smelled suspiciously like gasoline. I explained threw my tears that I only went to the gas can so that I could catch my stick back on fire like the boys, but that I couldn't lift the can, so I just tipped it and touched the spout. Once I got this much out, my brother and cousin started yelling, "Way to go stupid! The tip was still hot! You're so stupid! Ha ha ha! You are in SO much trouble!" My grandfather's face was controlled, but I noticed that the murderous expression softened just a little. Once I saw the crack in his reaction, I shamelessly used my little girl cuteness. I threw myself at him grabbing his leg (the man was 6'4), and he picked me up and told me that he wasn't angry, he was just so scared that something could have happened to me, or that we could have set off a fire that spread to other people's land, etc. Once he called me "Baby girl", I knew I was in the clear. The bonfire had pretty much burned itself down, and so my brother and cousin threw what was left of their sticks on the pile. Then we all turned to survey the damage. The shed was a loss, as well as everything else in it. The only thing that was recognizable was the silver gas can where the red letters told us it was GAS. Oh, and my stick was still in good shape...and it was still smoldering a bit at the tip...in my hand. He began to look at bit cross at that, so I made sure to tell him that the boys had been shooting at me with the BB gun too. (Ha! Take that you mean little bastards!) So, when the contractors returned on Monday, they added a new shed to their To Do list. I'm pretty sure Papaw told them what happened too because they would smile and kind of laugh when they saw me from then on.

So that is my stick story. And until my grandparents passed, it was told EVERY time that side of the family got together. Hot Stick + Gas=Shed Inferno courtesy of Sassy. My brother and cousin still bring it up to this day when we are all together, which fortunately (or unfortunately) is not often. When I remember it, I just remember how much I loved my Papaw and how much he loved us. The three of us did some crazy shit, but Papaw had one giant sense of humor. RIP Papaw. I miss you.