Three seconds.
Three of the longest seconds one person can ever experience. That’s the approximate length of time I was on fire last weekend.
You see, the town in which we live allows its residents to burn their leaves as a method of disposal.
On Sunday, the boys and I raked our leaves into a number of large piles. I proceeded to start a small fire out of some wood near one of the piles, then we slowly raked the leaves onto the fire. Twenty minutes later, the leaf pile was nothing but a mound of black ashes.
At the next pile, I had a brainstorm triggered by impatience: Sprinkle a little gas on top of the leaves, then light a few near the bottom and step back to watch the entire pile burn at once. Speeding up the process might enable the boys and I to finish in time to watch the end of the football game.
After ordering my sons away, I crouched down and flicked on my lighter. The moment the flame appeared, the entire pile exploded in a ball of fire that simultaneously enveloped my upper body.
My wife says the explosion was as loud as a firecracker, but I don’t recall any noise. Only heart-thumping fear.
For three seconds, I hopped about and beat at the flames in a grotesque sort of dance, while my wife and sons looked on in horror and shock.
Once the flames were doused, my trembling wife grabbed me and pulled me close. As we stood by the smoldering pile, I became aware of a pungent odor I will never fully forget – the smell of burnt skin and charred hair.
I also started to feel pain.
My face began to sting and my right hand – the one which held the lighter – started to throb. Looking down, I saw a large swatch of skin bubbling atop my hand.
Not good.
Still, I am a man, so my initial reaction was to ignore the pain and try to laugh off the incident. My wife had other ideas.
“Get in the car,” she ordered. “I’m taking you to the hospital!”
Three hours later, I left the emergency room after treatment for first and second degree burns to my face and right hand. My eyelashes and eyebrows were all but gone, and the receding of my hairline had received a big boost. Yet, had I not been wearing a long-sleeve jacket, it would likely have been worse.
Although my face and hand are now a peeling, oozing mess – similar to what one might expect from the worst sunburn imaginable – the doctor told me I should be fully recovered in two or three weeks. In fact, I may not experience any scarring from the incident.
Of course, right now I’m not a pretty sight. In a move Michael Jackson would appreciate, the end of my nose has all but fallen off. Also, my right thumb became surrounded by a blister the size of Rhode Island. It has since popped.
Still, I’ve tried to maintain my sense of humor. When my wife brought home a generic “Get Well” card Monday evening, I feigned disappointment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I just thought Hallmark might have a section for people who set themselves on fire.”
“No,” she deadpanned, “I looked.”
If nothing else, this story should serve as a lesson in what not to do with a pile of leaves. Let’s hope Hallmark never finds a reason to add a new category to their selection of “Get Well” cards.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Trip to a Foreign Land
My wife and I traveled to a foreign country to attend a wedding this past weekend. The wedding was in Cleveland.
Okay, so maybe I exaggerate. But only a little.
You see, the residents of Ohio seem to follow strange or outdated customs, similar to what you might find when visiting a third-world country such as Canada.
For instance, a large segment of the population enjoys spending their weekends gathered together at RV camps. For the uninformed, an RV camp is any clearing around a retention pond located near the interstate. The closer to the interstate, the better.
As my wife and I made the three-hour drive early Saturday morning, we noticed countless RV camps filling up with, well, RVs. The fact that it was forty-five degrees and raining didn’t seem to matter.
What they do at these places – with names such as “Tiny’s RV Park” and “Big Al’s RV Oasis” – is anyone’s guess. Mine would be: Drink beer, eat pork rinds, play cards, talk about Ohio State football and drink beer. Then, maybe, rustle up some breakfast.
I had two additional epiphanies during the drive to Cleveland.
First, there is a stretch of highway in Toledo that will always be under repair. In fact, I believe the workers actually finish the job once a year, then immediately tear it up and start over. Sort of like an episode of “The Twilight Zone.” In fact, if you roll down your window while creeping along at 5 mph, the jackhammers actually seem to make the “doo doo, doo doo” sound of the show’s theme song.
Second, a donut fairy must drop boxes of Tim Horton’s best along the highway at five mile intervals. How else can you explain the regularity at which state troopers pop up when traversing Ohio’s interstates?
Despite these oddities, we arrived safely at the reception hall in suburban Cleveland.
It appeared we had stepped into a time warp set for 1985. The women sported “big hair”, the men wore either spiked or long hair, cigarettes dangled from numerous lips and the clothing seemed retro.
Then we noticed an armed policeman standing in the doorway. As the groom worked in law enforcement, we assumed the officer was just another guest.
Except he seemed to confiscate every envelope addressed to the bride and groom.
After questioning someone at our table, we discovered that the presence of the law was not unusual at Cleveland weddings. Apparently, receptions frequently dissolve into English soccer matches, with yelling and shoving and occasional fisticuffs.
What’s more, we were told that having an officer present helps to ensure that the newlyweds’ gifts don’t disappear during the reception.
Before we could seek out bullet-proof vests, dinner was served. The family-style meal consisted of meat, with additional sides of meat, and a small bowl of beans. Everything was covered in a mud-like gravy, including the poor beans.
An hour later, the dancing began.
Not that anyone moved all that quickly, laden as they were with a couple extra pounds of beef and one or two beans.
Still, things managed to become quite festive. The bride and groom appeared completely in love, and the guests enjoyed participating in a new-fangled dance called “The Hustle”.
Then we heard a pair of loud voices.
Across the way, the bride’s step-father was arguing with an older gentleman. Possibly, it was over hair – the step-father sported a ridiculous comb-over and the other fellow wore perhaps the worst toupee I had ever seen.
As their voices grew even louder, we discovered the issue had to do with toupee’s groping of comb-over’s wife while the two shared a dance.
Suddenly, they began to tussle, and comb-over managed to put toupee in a headlock. This also resulted in toupee losing his toupee.
Before you could clink a glass with your spoon, the police officer arrived to break up the wrestling match and escort toupee (sans hair) out of the hall.
After that, folks resumed dancing as if nothing had remarkable had taken place.
A little unnerved, my wife and I decided to call it a night and return to our hotel. We sought out the newlyweds and wished them good luck.
Based upon the way they stared into each other’s eyes, I don’t think they will need it.
Then again, I heard they were honeymooning at Big Al’s RV Oasis.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Okay, so maybe I exaggerate. But only a little.
You see, the residents of Ohio seem to follow strange or outdated customs, similar to what you might find when visiting a third-world country such as Canada.
For instance, a large segment of the population enjoys spending their weekends gathered together at RV camps. For the uninformed, an RV camp is any clearing around a retention pond located near the interstate. The closer to the interstate, the better.
As my wife and I made the three-hour drive early Saturday morning, we noticed countless RV camps filling up with, well, RVs. The fact that it was forty-five degrees and raining didn’t seem to matter.
What they do at these places – with names such as “Tiny’s RV Park” and “Big Al’s RV Oasis” – is anyone’s guess. Mine would be: Drink beer, eat pork rinds, play cards, talk about Ohio State football and drink beer. Then, maybe, rustle up some breakfast.
I had two additional epiphanies during the drive to Cleveland.
First, there is a stretch of highway in Toledo that will always be under repair. In fact, I believe the workers actually finish the job once a year, then immediately tear it up and start over. Sort of like an episode of “The Twilight Zone.” In fact, if you roll down your window while creeping along at 5 mph, the jackhammers actually seem to make the “doo doo, doo doo” sound of the show’s theme song.
Second, a donut fairy must drop boxes of Tim Horton’s best along the highway at five mile intervals. How else can you explain the regularity at which state troopers pop up when traversing Ohio’s interstates?
Despite these oddities, we arrived safely at the reception hall in suburban Cleveland.
It appeared we had stepped into a time warp set for 1985. The women sported “big hair”, the men wore either spiked or long hair, cigarettes dangled from numerous lips and the clothing seemed retro.
Then we noticed an armed policeman standing in the doorway. As the groom worked in law enforcement, we assumed the officer was just another guest.
Except he seemed to confiscate every envelope addressed to the bride and groom.
After questioning someone at our table, we discovered that the presence of the law was not unusual at Cleveland weddings. Apparently, receptions frequently dissolve into English soccer matches, with yelling and shoving and occasional fisticuffs.
What’s more, we were told that having an officer present helps to ensure that the newlyweds’ gifts don’t disappear during the reception.
Before we could seek out bullet-proof vests, dinner was served. The family-style meal consisted of meat, with additional sides of meat, and a small bowl of beans. Everything was covered in a mud-like gravy, including the poor beans.
An hour later, the dancing began.
Not that anyone moved all that quickly, laden as they were with a couple extra pounds of beef and one or two beans.
Still, things managed to become quite festive. The bride and groom appeared completely in love, and the guests enjoyed participating in a new-fangled dance called “The Hustle”.
Then we heard a pair of loud voices.
Across the way, the bride’s step-father was arguing with an older gentleman. Possibly, it was over hair – the step-father sported a ridiculous comb-over and the other fellow wore perhaps the worst toupee I had ever seen.
As their voices grew even louder, we discovered the issue had to do with toupee’s groping of comb-over’s wife while the two shared a dance.
Suddenly, they began to tussle, and comb-over managed to put toupee in a headlock. This also resulted in toupee losing his toupee.
Before you could clink a glass with your spoon, the police officer arrived to break up the wrestling match and escort toupee (sans hair) out of the hall.
After that, folks resumed dancing as if nothing had remarkable had taken place.
A little unnerved, my wife and I decided to call it a night and return to our hotel. We sought out the newlyweds and wished them good luck.
Based upon the way they stared into each other’s eyes, I don’t think they will need it.
Then again, I heard they were honeymooning at Big Al’s RV Oasis.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
