Uncle Peter. “Oh, Lord,” we could all hear the man exclaim. “Dear, Lord.”
He helped Uncle Peter sit down and had him lean against a tree. Then the man looked around until he spotted Brigid. He signaled to her and she went running. “Watch the little ones,” she yelled at Charlie and me.
When Brigid got up to where Uncle Peter was she stopped suddenly and put her hand up to her mouth. The visitor was talking to her. She nodded and hurried into the house. She came back quickly with something in her hand. It looked like a small bowl.
“Butter,” I heard Charlie whisper. “Pa must have got burned.”
Butter? That wasn’t right.
“Brigid, wait!” I yelled and ran up toward them. She and the man stopped and looked at me. Uncle Peter wasn’t paying much attention. He looked dazed. Aunt Mary hadn’t moved.
I gasped when I saw Uncle Peter’s face. His mustache was singed: burnt hair and ashes. His eyebrows were almost gone. And his hands . . . . His hands were bright red and blistered. He was holding them in front of him as if they were made out of wood.
He had second-degree burns. I remembered that description from that Boy Scout first aid class. Red is first degree. Blistered is second. Black is third.
“Let me see,” I said and everyone was so shocked that I was butting in or so numbed by what had already happened, no one objected.
I closely looked at both sides of his hands and his wrists. There were no third degree burns but some of the blisters had already started to pop. Gunk was oozing out.
“Not butter,” I said. “They’ll get infected.”
I looked at my own hands. They were filthy. “I need two buckets of water,” I said. “And some soap. And some clean cloths to use as bandages. Then we’ll take Uncle Peter to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” the man said. “What hospital?”
“Is there a doctor?” I asked and he nodded.
“I’ll go get him,” he said and hurried off toward his horse.
Brigid brought the water, soap, and cloth. I washed my own hands and then just set Uncle Peter’s in the cool, clean water of the second bucket. He winced and cried out a little but then stopped.
“After a bit we’ll loosely wrap them in the clean cloth and wait for the doctor,” I said.
“Did Heinrich Manhover teach you this, too?” Brigid asked and I nodded.
Uncle Peter was shaking his head. “We’ve lost it all,” he said. “I’ve lost it all.”
“No, Papa,” Brigid said. “The house is fine. You saved the house.”
“The sideboard,” he said. “I won’t be able to finish the carving for the sideboard. I’ve lost the farm.”
Chapter 23
Forty-seven Dollars Short
It was still light out when the doctor showed up in a buggy being pulled by one horse. He said Uncle Peter’s hands would be all right but he had to keep them wrapped. The doctor said he was glad he didn’t have to spend time cleaning butter off them.
Other people came by, too. Neighbors with food and blankets and clothes. They had seen the smoke and weren’t sure what was left.
Aunt Mary kept telling everyone how lucky we were. We were all alive and we still had the house. I asked her how it had started and she said a kettle of lard on the stove had gotten away from her. It had gotten too hot and had caught fire.
She looked so sad, as if it were all her fault. Uncle Peter looked as if he thought their troubles were his fault.
We couldn’t use the house. Charlie and I went inside and smoke had left a layer of dark gray over everything on the first floor and one of light gray over almost everything on the second. It smelled awful in there.
Besides that, Uncle Peter was afraid some ember might still be going in the summer kitchen and if it took off again he didn’t want anyone asleep in the house.
Two neighbor men volunteered to stay up all night in the
He helped Uncle Peter sit down and had him lean against a tree. Then the man looked around until he spotted Brigid. He signaled to her and she went running. “Watch the little ones,” she yelled at Charlie and me.
When Brigid got up to where Uncle Peter was she stopped suddenly and put her hand up to her mouth. The visitor was talking to her. She nodded and hurried into the house. She came back quickly with something in her hand. It looked like a small bowl.
“Butter,” I heard Charlie whisper. “Pa must have got burned.”
Butter? That wasn’t right.
“Brigid, wait!” I yelled and ran up toward them. She and the man stopped and looked at me. Uncle Peter wasn’t paying much attention. He looked dazed. Aunt Mary hadn’t moved.
I gasped when I saw Uncle Peter’s face. His mustache was singed: burnt hair and ashes. His eyebrows were almost gone. And his hands . . . . His hands were bright red and blistered. He was holding them in front of him as if they were made out of wood.
He had second-degree burns. I remembered that description from that Boy Scout first aid class. Red is first degree. Blistered is second. Black is third.
“Let me see,” I said and everyone was so shocked that I was butting in or so numbed by what had already happened, no one objected.
I closely looked at both sides of his hands and his wrists. There were no third degree burns but some of the blisters had already started to pop. Gunk was oozing out.
“Not butter,” I said. “They’ll get infected.”
I looked at my own hands. They were filthy. “I need two buckets of water,” I said. “And some soap. And some clean cloths to use as bandages. Then we’ll take Uncle Peter to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” the man said. “What hospital?”
“Is there a doctor?” I asked and he nodded.
“I’ll go get him,” he said and hurried off toward his horse.
Brigid brought the water, soap, and cloth. I washed my own hands and then just set Uncle Peter’s in the cool, clean water of the second bucket. He winced and cried out a little but then stopped.
“After a bit we’ll loosely wrap them in the clean cloth and wait for the doctor,” I said.
“Did Heinrich Manhover teach you this, too?” Brigid asked and I nodded.
Uncle Peter was shaking his head. “We’ve lost it all,” he said. “I’ve lost it all.”
“No, Papa,” Brigid said. “The house is fine. You saved the house.”
“The sideboard,” he said. “I won’t be able to finish the carving for the sideboard. I’ve lost the farm.”
Chapter 23
Forty-seven Dollars Short
It was still light out when the doctor showed up in a buggy being pulled by one horse. He said Uncle Peter’s hands would be all right but he had to keep them wrapped. The doctor said he was glad he didn’t have to spend time cleaning butter off them.
Other people came by, too. Neighbors with food and blankets and clothes. They had seen the smoke and weren’t sure what was left.
Aunt Mary kept telling everyone how lucky we were. We were all alive and we still had the house. I asked her how it had started and she said a kettle of lard on the stove had gotten away from her. It had gotten too hot and had caught fire.
She looked so sad, as if it were all her fault. Uncle Peter looked as if he thought their troubles were his fault.
We couldn’t use the house. Charlie and I went inside and smoke had left a layer of dark gray over everything on the first floor and one of light gray over almost everything on the second. It smelled awful in there.
Besides that, Uncle Peter was afraid some ember might still be going in the summer kitchen and if it took off again he didn’t want anyone asleep in the house.
Two neighbor men volunteered to stay up all night in the
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