If a kid shows courage in the woods, but no one sees it, was she brave?
My eyes tuned in to
the bright light of the flames, making the darkness beyond the fire
impenetrable. I could see the faces of the other campers gathered for the sing-along.
Everyone kept a
safe distance from the flames.
Except for the kid
across from me.
He was part of a loud group that had been
disturbing my peace with nightly parties and loud music since their arrival a
week before. Just after the sing-a long started, I noticed that his parents had
left him sitting there and gone back to their party.
Finding himself
suddenly alone, he stood searching.
He was wearing those footsie
pajamas every little kid seemed to have in the 70s and I could see the white
plastic sole of his foot, outstretched, and searching for a place to set down
in the narrow space between the singers and the fire.
He threaded his way through;
his gaze fixed on his cabin in the distance.
The pace of the music picked
up. The neck of a guitar bobbed in time. Everyone clapped along.
The boy squeezed between the
guitar and the fire. The guitarist swung his body with the music.
The kid lurched out of the
way and into the flames.
Sparks flew up as the boy
came down.
I looked for movement from
the adults around the fire, but nobody moved. The clapping continued. The
singers sang on.
Suddenly, a pair of hands hoisted
the boy away from the blaze. His feet scraped a dark trail through the hot red coals.
Flames flickered on his synthetic flannel pajamas. The hands beat down the
flames and brushed away the glowing embers that clung to the melting vinyl
soles of his pajama feet.
I looked down and realized
that those hands were my own.
The kid scampered away
without a word or a look back.
In his wake, the cool night
air washed over me. Music again filled my ears.
I brushed the grey ash from my
hands and was shocked that they were not burned. I sat there for a while,
mouthing along with the singing. When the music and the fire finally tapered
off, I headed to our cabin.
I didn't tell anyone until a
few weeks later.
"Gramama," I whispered.
"I was a hero!"
We stood alone in her dining
room with only my play-dough sculptures watching us from a midst her treasures
in the china cabinet. I admired her simple cotton dress knowing that she'd
probably made it herself--a skill she'd begun to share with me. We'd just
finished another one of her incredible meals and it filled my belly like
courage.
I thought she would be
proud.
"But Crissy,” she said,
“if no one saw you, how do you know you were a hero?"
My throat tightened and I
turned away so she couldn't see me biting my lip. I had been brave and fast—that
was a hero in my book. No, I thought, it didn't matter that no one had noticed.
Years later, I Googled
myself and was surprised to find my name, along with my husband's, in a police
blotter column. It briefly mentioned how we had stopped to give aid at a car
wreck. Had my grandmother been alive, I might have shown it to her and shared
the story of another night when I battled fire, this time with a fire
extinguisher and witnesses. I wonder what she would have said.
I can't ask her about it now.
Wow,what a great story, and very well-written - I was right there with you at the bonfire - could almost feel the heat from the flames. Well done!
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteI love this story so much - the fire is a character all its own. Beautifully done.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much!
DeleteYou are a hero in my book for sure! Sorry your grandmother didn't recognize you for it.
ReplyDeleteThank you. :-)
DeleteIt reminds me of "Groundhog Day" when Phil saves the same kid every repeating day and never gets a thank you and finally shouts, "Maybe tomorrow I won't catch you!" In any case, a tree still makes noise if it falls and there is no one there to hear it :) You witnessed and so did that ungrateful boy.
ReplyDeleteOne of my favorite scenes!
DeleteReally fine descriptions--of the fire, of the kid, of the confusion of the narrator.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much!
DeleteWonderful story. Your description is so vivid, I could feel the heat of the fire on my face.
ReplyDeleteThanks! I can still feel the heat when I think about it.
DeleteI wonder if it is a generational thing to deny one's good deeds? Either way, grandma was wrong. Thanks for the story and sharing it on yeah write. Your writing is full of passion.
ReplyDeleteThank you. Yes, I also wonder if it was a generational thing. The incident gave me some unexpected insight into her outlook.
DeleteVery vivid story! I bet that kid remembers your heroism. How old was he? I pictured him very young with footsie pajamas.
ReplyDeleteThanks! I think he had to have been about 5 or 6. I don't think he realized he was on fire.
DeleteI suspect the meaning of the word HERO may be the issue. She was and is very proud of you, loves you, and knows you ARE a hero.
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteAuthor's note: I'm so thrilled to have been picked as this week's Yeah Write Crowd Favorite.
It's been a long time since I did any real posting to this blog. I am very grateful to have had the benefit of my friend and mentor, Cindy Reed's editorial input on this post. I wrote Courage when I was taking Cindy's Blogger's Bootcamp.
Cindy''s currently helping writers like me get our of our own way and become better writers, bloggers and creative people.
If you have any interest in writing--it doesn't have to be blogging you should check out her writing courses at http://cindyreed.me/online-writing-courses/