My dad would always have us kids gather together the weeds and scrap wood lying around our five-acre property in south Provo every spring and fall, and we’d light a huge bonfire in the middle of the garden (which was often quite a heap—piled over my head and in a stack about 10 feet or more in diameter). My older brother Danny and I loved lighting sticks on fire and running around the garden like little yahoos. It was always a sad moment when my dad announced it was time to hose down our flaming pile of sticks and weeds.
I remember on one occasion, after my dad was done with his work of murdering our bonfire, he went inside. When we were sure he was gone, Danny and I started picking through the ashes in hopes of finding some live coals. My face brightened when I found some live ones deep within the pile, still burning bright and hot. Danny helped me transport them to a spot behind the chicken coup because we didn’t want my dad to see that we’d decided to resurrect the fire. We determined we were going to play “Hobos” with our very own campfire for real authentic effect--we didn't have to imagine our fire this time.
Much to our dismay, the wet grass and freshly picked willow branches weren’t burning very well. I suddenly remembered something I had learned in primary the week before and told my brother the story about the pioneers burning cow pies in their fires since they didn’t have a lot of wood to burn while crossing the plains. So… my brother sent me to go find some dried cow pies—“… Since you’d be better at finding them anyway,” he explained to me.
I climbed over the barbed wire fence into the pasture, pleased that my brother had admitted I was better at something than he was. I found plenty of dry ones, but I found my fair share of wet ones and semi-wet pies too. Danny called me to come back quickly before the coals died out, so I hurried back from my scavenging in the pasture.
By the time I got back to my brother, it was starting to rain. We had to find shelter, and fast, if we wanted our fire to survive. We decided the chicken coup wouldn’t be a very good idea because the chickens would get scared if we lit up a fire in their little enclosure. We opted for the hay-covered floor of the lean-to shed in the pasture. It would provide a roof over our heads so the fire wouldn’t get put out by the rain, and it provided lots of soft places to sit down and lay by our fire (ahem, hay-covered floor).
Danny was in charge of taking the coals over the barbed wire fence, and I climbed over after him. I got into trouble for forgetting to bring the cow pies with me though, and I was promptly sent back over the fence to retrieve our fuel for the fire. On my way over the barbed wire fence for the thousandth time in my young little life, the outside edge of my left knee caught on the barbed wire as I swung my leg over the top edge. I felt it rip and I looked down in panic. Wearing shorts, it didn’t take much to see the damage the barbed wire had done to the side of my knee. I saw the deep gash in my soft pink skin, but it wasn’t bleeding. “Oh, good, it’s not bleeding, I’m okay,” I thought to myself… but that thought only lasted for a split second. Just then, I saw the blood pool up in the bottom of the gash and it filled quickly. I panicked again, and screamed my brother’s name this time. Perturbed, he called, “Wha-at?” Like, “What’s taking you so gosh-darn long to get over here with those cow pies?” but I had already jumped down from the fence and started running towards the house as fast as my little eight year old legs could carry me.
When I got back to the house, I dashed through the back door and found my dad looking up suddenly at me from his seat at the dinner table, a puzzled look on his face. Through my huffing and puffing and panting for air, I managed to say, “I cut me knee on the barbed wire fence…”
With that, I looked down at my knee and saw the blood running down my leg by this point—bad idea to look. I started crying instantly because I guess seeing the blood was worse than whatever pain I might have been feeling at that moment. My dad sat there and stared at me for a moment, probably in shock. After he recovered from his temporary silent stare in shock or horror or confusion or whatever it was, he gave me an expert examination and determined that I MIGHT need stitches for the cut.
“NO! I don’t want stitches!” I launched immediately into every excuse I could think of that would convince my dad that I did NOT need stitches. My clever little excuses included things such as, “I haven’t had dinner yet,” and “Stitches sound expensive,” and “It will hurt and take a long time and this cut isn’t so bad…” and so on.
Finally, my dad gave in and decided he would butterfly-bandage it and try to pull the edges of the cut together. (I guess I was a persuasive little eight-year-old. It helped that I was a Daddy’s Girl too.) However, there was ONE CONDITION that I had to meet if my dad promised to not make me get stitches. I HAD to have the liquid anti-biotic put on the cut. *Psycho screeching music playing suddenly in the background in Jen's mind at hearing this condition*
You see, most anti-biotic gels don’t sting at all… they’re actually quite soothing to a cut or scrape… but this liquid stuff my dad had was some kind of chemical nasty smelling stuff that BURNED LIKE H-E-DOUBLE TOOTHPICKS whenever it touched an open wound. He may as well have taken pure rubbing alcohol, mixed it in a little hand-sanitizer and bleach, and thrown in a little lemon juice on top of it all for how awesome this stuff felt when it came in contact with your open wound. In all reality, putting on that liquid anti-biotic ALWAYS hurt more than the actual acquiring of whatever wound of the day I had. And it held true to form in this situation too with my barbed wire gash in my knee. From my position sitting on my dad’s bathroom countertop, I reached for anything to grab a hold of and clenched my jaws together… ready for the burn.
After some screaming and crying, it was finally over and I was all bandaged up. I had to favor my leg for a couple weeks after that—not bending it any more than necessary, elevating it whenever I could, not participate in gym (my favorite school class), etc. It healed up into a wide scar, but at least I didn’t have to get stitches! *crazy kid grin*
I guess in conclusion to my story… I think it was probably for the best that I cut my knee on the fence, thus ending our fascination (for that night anyways) with starting a fire on a hay-covered floor in an old wooden lean-to that happened to be connected to an old barn and a string of other old wooden out-buildings. Got a sense of humor, don’t ya, H.F.? =)
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