One Hot Memory

It Was A time Of Learning.

One Hot Memory

Why do some memories stay with a person? Seventy-five years takes the sharpness from some of them, while other memories are no more. Where are they, though, when I want to talk about "My Childhood."

My memories came in all different colors. Some were dark and fearful, while others were bright and cheerful.

It is a gray memory I bring up today. It wasn't the sky that was gray, only the memory. Summers weren't gray for a ten-year-old ready for adventure. All my chores were done, and friends could play now if I wanted. But I wanted adventure.

But where did the idea of sneaking some matches out of the house come from? (That is a separate story by itself.)

But I knew where the matches were. We had a metal matchbox fixture hanging on the wall by our kerosene stove. Mom would always raise the chimney on the stove to light the circular wick that held the kerosene to burn and get the food she was preparing hot.

Mom was nowhere to be seen, so it was safe for me to reach into the box of matches and take some for my adventure.

With my handful of matches, I headed towards the escape route out the back door.

Safely out, I headed towards the front yard, where I knew there were some small twigs where my adventure would start.

However, this is where my experience was abruptly interrupted.

Out of nowhere, Mom appeared and wanted to know, "What do you think you are doing with those matches?"

How could she have seen me when no one was in the kitchen? Indeed, a very dark cloud overshadowed my adventure.

The four or five steps down from the roadway had an iron railing to hold on to. Embarrassed but still wanting to show some spirit, I jumped over the iron railing.

MY BAD.

The matches I had in one hand rubbed against the metal rail. Most burst into flame with their sulfur flame, heat, and smell.

I threw them all down, but only after the handful of matches had accomplished what a handful of stick matches could do.

Burn.

Burn my hand, that is.

I don't know what kind of punishment Mom would have prescribed for what I had done, but out of mercy, she said, "I am not going to punish you because I think you have enough pain to deal with already."

After getting my hand bandaged, I had no thoughts of adventure.

Adventures of my Childhood, about 1948. Just guessing.

Larry E. Whittington