| Biographical Non-Fiction posted June 20, 2024 |
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It Hurt in the End
I Didn't Tell a Lie - Sorta
by Tom Horonzy
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It was a week after New Year's, nineteen fifty-four.
The place was Chambersburg, Trenton, New Jersey. A fascinating time for an imaginative seven-year-old especially with a horde of dried-up Christmas trees being tossed to the curb.
A friend and I began adopting the discarded trees to build a fort... against an abandoned detached garage in the alleyway between our homes. We had collected about a dozen firs and stood them tall creating a cave in which to crawl. The weather was cold, and so were we. Donald suggested we build a fire. I thought that to be a good idea, but where would we get a match?
In those days, kitchen stoves were made of cast iron and fueled by coal or wood. A box with wooden red-tipped matches hung on a wall out of reach, supposedly from rambunctious children, but not for a creative kid needing to spark a fire to stay warm in his newly constructed fort. My friend told me he knew how to strike a match from watching his mom prepare dinner. I scooted a stool into position and stood on my tippy toes, garnering a fuse before racing back to my compadre-in-arms, who had gathered some kindling in our homemade cavern. There, beneath dried-out boughs, a glow took place as Donald struck our "strike-anywhere match" having no ill intent intended, but what do tenderfoots know?
As quick as a whip the flick became a flame, and the pyre turned to fire, and then Dante's Inferno. Those trees lit up for a second time that Christmas Season before spreading to the adjoining building. We made it safely out and watched the flames reach higher.
It wasn't long before firemen came to put out the fire, but the damage had been done. The garage had been significantly singed because of our sin, and the arsonist had to pay his due.
Later that night, when my father came in, he closed the pocket doors to the sitting room and asked, "Thomas, did you light the match that started that fire?"
"No sir. Donald did" which was true, but I did not volunteer that I supplied the starter.
Dad lit into Donald's father, who believed 'I started the fire' in defense of his boy, who lied, and a kerfuffle followed. That led to Mr. Scott needing a doctor. I felt so bad afterward that it led me to confess the whole story.
Closing the parlor doors for privacy, he bared my behind to tar it redder than a ripe apple. It was my first and last whipping. During the tanning, Father stated the lashing was hurting him more than me, which seemed incorrect at the time.
Today, I understand why, as my father's trust in me was never fully recovered whereas my fanny stripes faded with time.
True Story Contest contest entry
It was a week after New Year's, nineteen fifty-four.
The place was Chambersburg, Trenton, New Jersey. A fascinating time for an imaginative seven-year-old especially with a horde of dried-up Christmas trees being tossed to the curb.
A friend and I began adopting the discarded trees to build a fort... against an abandoned detached garage in the alleyway between our homes. We had collected about a dozen firs and stood them tall creating a cave in which to crawl. The weather was cold, and so were we. Donald suggested we build a fire. I thought that to be a good idea, but where would we get a match?
In those days, kitchen stoves were made of cast iron and fueled by coal or wood. A box with wooden red-tipped matches hung on a wall out of reach, supposedly from rambunctious children, but not for a creative kid needing to spark a fire to stay warm in his newly constructed fort. My friend told me he knew how to strike a match from watching his mom prepare dinner. I scooted a stool into position and stood on my tippy toes, garnering a fuse before racing back to my compadre-in-arms, who had gathered some kindling in our homemade cavern. There, beneath dried-out boughs, a glow took place as Donald struck our "strike-anywhere match" having no ill intent intended, but what do tenderfoots know?
As quick as a whip the flick became a flame, and the pyre turned to fire, and then Dante's Inferno. Those trees lit up for a second time that Christmas Season before spreading to the adjoining building. We made it safely out and watched the flames reach higher.
It wasn't long before firemen came to put out the fire, but the damage had been done. The garage had been significantly singed because of our sin, and the arsonist had to pay his due.
Later that night, when my father came in, he closed the pocket doors to the sitting room and asked, "Thomas, did you light the match that started that fire?"
"No sir. Donald did" which was true, but I did not volunteer that I supplied the starter.
Dad lit into Donald's father, who believed 'I started the fire' in defense of his boy, who lied, and a kerfuffle followed. That led to Mr. Scott needing a doctor. I felt so bad afterward that it led me to confess the whole story.
Closing the parlor doors for privacy, he bared my behind to tar it redder than a ripe apple. It was my first and last whipping. During the tanning, Father stated the lashing was hurting him more than me, which seemed incorrect at the time.
Today, I understand why, as my father's trust in me was never fully recovered whereas my fanny stripes faded with time.
 Recognized |
I don't know the artist of the picture photographed by me that hung in our loo once upon a time, and which is apropos I believe for the story told.
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© Copyright 2024. Tom Horonzy All rights reserved.
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