Our conversation had moved through our most recent tragedy, the loss of our home to the recent wildfires in SoCal, to tragedies in general. I had pointed out that I wasn't a stranger to tragedy, one of the reasons this being so hard took me by surprise. I'm beginning to understand the whys and wherefores of that, but our conversation moved on to other tragedies in my life.
In my teens and early twenties, my life was touched by death much more often than is normal. In the space of 5 years, I lived through the deaths of my younger brother, a college girlfriend, and my best buddy who helped me through my brother's death. All were killed in auto accidents, which is entirely too predictable being in their teens and twenties in the USA.
We talked through that at length, but there was a tragedy we didn't get too, that has been on my mind this Mothers Day weekend.
My kindergarten year was spent in Panama City, Florida. Daddy was working at Tyndall AFB and we lived not far from the base in a little rented clapboard house in a neighborhood full of other Air Force Sergeants and their families. It was a nice place to be a kid, but the houses weren't very well maintained. Our water heater kept going out, Mama would have to go to the little utility shed behind the house and relight the pilot light in order to bathe us at night.
One night in the early summer, she once again couldn't get any hot water in the bathroom. She had us lined up ready for the bath, but I followed her into the kitchen as she grabbed a box of matches and headed out to the shed. I stood at the back door and watched as she walked into the shed. Apparently she didn't smell the gas that had accumulated in the small space. Seconds later, the shed exploded.
I don't recall the next few minutes clearly. I remember Sgt. Scarborough running over from next door, seeing me standing at the screen door screaming and pointing, then running to the shed. I saw him lift Mama's body and run back towards his house. The next thing I recall, I was being hustled into my pajamas by one of his older kids, then later was being put to bed in their house. I wanted to see Mama, to touch her, to find out for sure if she was really alive, but they didn't allow kids in hospital emergency rooms back then. At all.
Days later, I was arguing with my Father, trying to get him to take me to see her. He finally broke through to ask my why I was so inconsolable, and I told him I didn't believe she was still alive. I was certain they (all of the adults) were telling me she was OK just to keep me from crying, and that she was dead when Sgt. Scarborough carried her away. I had been to my Granny Peters' funeral the year before, and knew what a dead person looked like, and Mama looked dead in his arms.
That evening, Daddy took me to the hospital, I don't recall if it was at Tyndall or at Eglin AFB. He explained what was going on to the charge nurse, and she said I could visit for 5 minutes. That was all I needed to find out Mama really was alive, that she could recognize me and talk to me and was going to be OK. Medical science had progressed much in the treating of burns in the few short years since I had been scalded at age 3. She would not have too much scarring, mostly some flash burns on her legs and hands and arms.
Mom, if you ever read this, I'm so happy you lived through that, and through all the other trials. Thanks for everything. Happy Mother's Day.
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