This is a fun little anecdote from the good old days in Ukiah. Nice to write a fun one. The boys are welcome to leave comments on any suggested factual corrections. ;)
The Bonfire
I come from a family of eight wild and rambunctious children. I am third oldest and the first girl. I was raised in a small town in northern California called Ukiah, famous for vineyards, environmentalist and marijuana. My family didn’t have much in the way of worldly possessions, but we certainly had active imaginations and devil-may-care desires to experience life to the fullest. How we have all reached adulthood is a mystery to me and the fire department that visited our home several times. One of those times stands out above the rest as the most dramatic and memorable. It had been engraved in the tablets of Rodriguez family folklore and legend. I like to call it the “Bonfire Incident.”
My eldest brother, Jeremiah, and I were sitting at the dining room table with our parents, having a snack on a lovely day. The sun was shining outside and it was perfect weather for outdoor adventures. I found myself often sitting in the house, even on days like this, reading. I have always loved pouring over books for hours on end. My parents would have to force me to spend time outside if I were involved in particularly engaging reading. As my brother and parents chit chatted about nothing in particular, I read, completely caught up in the world of fictional characters.
My reading was interrupted when Jaime, one of my younger brothers, walked in the back door carrying a small stick. He said nothing and walked straight to a cupboard in the kitchen. He pulled out the big can of Crisco Mama kept in there, lifted the lid, and unceremoniously jammed the stick into the grease. When he had scooped a sufficient amount onto his stick, he turned and headed back outside, leaving the open can on the floor. We all just watched in dumbfounded silence. Dad was the first to speak.
“Go see what that Bear is doing.” We called Jaime “Bear.” Jeremiah and I jumped eagerly from our seats and ran out the door and down the back steps. From there we were stealthy, finding cover behind the old yellow shed. I poked my head around the corner and so did Jeremiah, about a head above me. What we saw left us speechless, which was unusual for both of us.
My other brother, Jared, who was older than me and obviously the ringleader of this fiasco, sat on a low to the ground lawn chair, poking a stick into a fire. Circled about were my younger brothers, Jaime, Jose and Javier plus a few of their friends. They sat on tree stumps or squatted on the ground. The boys had dug their own small fire pit on a dirt patch at the edge of the lawn, just before the yard went down hill. We were all really into playing Indians in those days. I can only imagine they fancied themselves a bunch of buckskinned Indians, roasting the fruits of their successful hunting party over their glorious fire.
Just as Jeremiah and I had become aware of what the boys were up to, Jaime proudly threw the fat laden stick onto the fire as the group hollered and shouted their approval with wild Indian calls, shaking sticks in the air. What had been an insignificant bed of flames immediately burst into a raging inferno with flames shooting high into the air, feeding on the Crisco. The boys jumped back as the fire exploded out of the confines of their humble fire pit.
Jeremiah and I were both stunned, momentarily paralyzed. We found our voices at the same time and yelled in unison, “You’re busted!”
With that, the boys began to scatter while Jeremiah and I ran back into the house screaming and hollering the barely intelligible news of the mighty fire that was on the verge of getting out of control in the back yard. Dad sprang to his feet. He was young then and moved quickly. Grabbing the water hose from the back porch, he ran toward the flames, cursing a plethora of obscenities in Spanish the whole way. Jeremiah turned on the water and Dad sprayed that fire until finally the conflagration was extinguished and the sparks discontinued their threatening volley. What remained were scorched lawn chairs and tree stumps and a bed of stifled embers and coals. Smoke hung heavy in the air.
The boys knew that swift justice would follow and accordingly, they had run to far corners of the yard and house to avoid Dad’s belt. The oldest and wisest knew to stuff their pants with socks and balled up underwear for padding. They were also quicker and had enough time take protective measures. They enjoyed the advantages of natural selection. My younger brothers, Jose and Javier were not so lucky. They were slower and far more naïve. Their punishment was exacted quickly, leaving them to wallow sadly in their misfortune while Dad went after the older ones. Jared and Jaime made quick work of getting to their bedroom and stuffing their pants. They had learned from many previous experiences that such protective measures would ensure their ability to sit down the next day.
Jeremiah and I laughed cruelly and enjoyed the spectacle before us, knowing that at least this time, we had nothing to worry about, having luckily been in the house when this wild plan was concocted.
The older boys were eventually caught and punished, their reproof made lighter thanks to ample padding. Fingers were pointed and blame was cast, but in the end, all of the boys earned a stiff sentence of restricted privileges. Jeremiah and I gloated merrily and enjoyed our freedom, glad that we hadn’t participated in this calamitous affair.
My eldest brother, Jeremiah, and I were sitting at the dining room table with our parents, having a snack on a lovely day. The sun was shining outside and it was perfect weather for outdoor adventures. I found myself often sitting in the house, even on days like this, reading. I have always loved pouring over books for hours on end. My parents would have to force me to spend time outside if I were involved in particularly engaging reading. As my brother and parents chit chatted about nothing in particular, I read, completely caught up in the world of fictional characters.
My reading was interrupted when Jaime, one of my younger brothers, walked in the back door carrying a small stick. He said nothing and walked straight to a cupboard in the kitchen. He pulled out the big can of Crisco Mama kept in there, lifted the lid, and unceremoniously jammed the stick into the grease. When he had scooped a sufficient amount onto his stick, he turned and headed back outside, leaving the open can on the floor. We all just watched in dumbfounded silence. Dad was the first to speak.
“Go see what that Bear is doing.” We called Jaime “Bear.” Jeremiah and I jumped eagerly from our seats and ran out the door and down the back steps. From there we were stealthy, finding cover behind the old yellow shed. I poked my head around the corner and so did Jeremiah, about a head above me. What we saw left us speechless, which was unusual for both of us.
My other brother, Jared, who was older than me and obviously the ringleader of this fiasco, sat on a low to the ground lawn chair, poking a stick into a fire. Circled about were my younger brothers, Jaime, Jose and Javier plus a few of their friends. They sat on tree stumps or squatted on the ground. The boys had dug their own small fire pit on a dirt patch at the edge of the lawn, just before the yard went down hill. We were all really into playing Indians in those days. I can only imagine they fancied themselves a bunch of buckskinned Indians, roasting the fruits of their successful hunting party over their glorious fire.
Just as Jeremiah and I had become aware of what the boys were up to, Jaime proudly threw the fat laden stick onto the fire as the group hollered and shouted their approval with wild Indian calls, shaking sticks in the air. What had been an insignificant bed of flames immediately burst into a raging inferno with flames shooting high into the air, feeding on the Crisco. The boys jumped back as the fire exploded out of the confines of their humble fire pit.
Jeremiah and I were both stunned, momentarily paralyzed. We found our voices at the same time and yelled in unison, “You’re busted!”
With that, the boys began to scatter while Jeremiah and I ran back into the house screaming and hollering the barely intelligible news of the mighty fire that was on the verge of getting out of control in the back yard. Dad sprang to his feet. He was young then and moved quickly. Grabbing the water hose from the back porch, he ran toward the flames, cursing a plethora of obscenities in Spanish the whole way. Jeremiah turned on the water and Dad sprayed that fire until finally the conflagration was extinguished and the sparks discontinued their threatening volley. What remained were scorched lawn chairs and tree stumps and a bed of stifled embers and coals. Smoke hung heavy in the air.
The boys knew that swift justice would follow and accordingly, they had run to far corners of the yard and house to avoid Dad’s belt. The oldest and wisest knew to stuff their pants with socks and balled up underwear for padding. They were also quicker and had enough time take protective measures. They enjoyed the advantages of natural selection. My younger brothers, Jose and Javier were not so lucky. They were slower and far more naïve. Their punishment was exacted quickly, leaving them to wallow sadly in their misfortune while Dad went after the older ones. Jared and Jaime made quick work of getting to their bedroom and stuffing their pants. They had learned from many previous experiences that such protective measures would ensure their ability to sit down the next day.
Jeremiah and I laughed cruelly and enjoyed the spectacle before us, knowing that at least this time, we had nothing to worry about, having luckily been in the house when this wild plan was concocted.
The older boys were eventually caught and punished, their reproof made lighter thanks to ample padding. Fingers were pointed and blame was cast, but in the end, all of the boys earned a stiff sentence of restricted privileges. Jeremiah and I gloated merrily and enjoyed our freedom, glad that we hadn’t participated in this calamitous affair.
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