Bonfire Day

(I originally wrote this factual story for an assignment in my Master’s course.  My family still talk about this event.  You’ll see why.)

Mom wasn’t pleased when I walked home with a fishing pole in one hand and a bucket of water in the other that bounced against my knee. A foot-long bass sloshed in the bucket with every step I took. I had caught the fish at the campground’s pond across the street, and the owners allowed me to take it home. Usually they enforced a catch-and-release policy with me, but this bass was the largest in the pond. A fish that size deserved to be eaten. I intended to do so, but I couldn’t remember how to gut a fish without guided assistance from dad, and he was working at the fire station. Mom couldn’t remember either, and she didn’t want to bother figuring it out.

“Let’s keep it in the old hot tub for now. Dad can help you later.”

The old hot tub was a giant barrel that used to be our outdoor spa until we bought a modern one. Since then we rolled the barrel to the back yard of our two-acre property and converted it into a fish tank for little mosquito-eaters. With the water continually pumped into a filter, the bass could live well feeding on the small fish until it became dinner. And so it remained there. Under a tall oak tree next to a thick patch of blackberry bushes, that bass swam through the summer and winter months. It was longer than I had intended, but my little eight-year-old brain never got around to asking dad for a reminder on how to gut a fish. So the bass became one of the inhabitants of the property like the chickens, woodpeckers, and occasional raccoons fighting at night.

Damp spring came around. The Fire Department proclaimed that it was safe enough for controlled outdoor burning. This meant bonfire day in the backyard. A towering pile of pruned orchard branches and cut brambles had accumulated over the past months. A bonfire meant clearing this heap for my parents. For my older brother and me, a bonfire meant roasting marshmallows over the coals still glowing red amber in the gray ashes.

This would be a good day.

We gathered any remaining weeds and fallen sticks that needed to be burned. My dad and brother used pitchforks to carry them across the property to the pile. I carried long branches one at a time, imagining them as tall poles with leaves serving as banners.

“Come on, kiddo,” dad said. “You can carry more than that.”

Party pooper.

Mom, my brother and I cleared the space around the brush mound while my dad dragged a water hose from the house so that any flying embers could be sprayed. We didn’t want another fire to start somewhere else. Not only would it have been a great inconvenience for the neighboring ranch or the campground, but it was also illegal, so all around it was a bad idea. I was given hose duty. Everyone else stood by with pitchfork or rake in hand as dad lit the bonfire.

The flames sparked, grew, and sputtered. White smoke drifted up as the fire worked its way through half of the pile. Branches burned yellow then orange. The heat pushed us back fifteen feet, but we stayed close enough to keep the flames under control. We turned our bodies this way and that to cool off warming limbs and backs before anything scorched. The flames hummed with pleasure as it stretched up over our heads, the branches popping like cracked joints. This was a good bonfire, and it wasn’t at full blaze yet.

Squeaks emanated from the pile as the burning progressed. We didn’t think much of it. Trapped moisture in wood often hissed and sizzled out when heated. However, the squeaks came from the untouched part of the pile awaiting the flames.

“What’s making that noise?” mom asked.

Dad walked over and poked through the pile. “It’s mice.”

“What?”

He pulled out bits of grassed clumped together. He brought them away from the heat cupped in his hands. “Look, it’s a nest.”

I rushed over to look. Four baby mice squirmed and squeaked together. Their rough pink bodies nosed around each other, blind to the world and the near disaster they escaped.

“Their mother must’ve abandoned them when we lit the fire,” dad said.

“Can we keep them?” I asked. I was always eager for new pets.

“I don’t know.” Dad considered this for a minute. “They’re really young. I don’t think we have the right milk for them.”

“I doubt their mother will come back for them,” mom added.

I felt disheartened. “So, they’re gonna die?”

“I’m afraid so,” dad said.

I looked at the babies calming down in dad’s hands. It didn’t seem fair for such small things to die.

Then dad got an idea. “Say, do you want to see something cool?”

“What?” I asked.

“You know, bass eat mice sometimes, and these guys look small enough. Do you want to feed them to your bass in the tub?”

I had no idea mom looked over my head at these words to stare at dad. Her eyes probably screamed “Are you crazy!” The look gave him second thoughts, wondering if this was an appropriate life-and-death lesson for me. Would I understand the fish’s need to eat, or lament a baby mouse’s death? Oblivious to this silent exchange, I pondered dad’s suggestion for a minute before giving my answer.

“Okay.”

This surprised dad, but it was too late to go back on his words. He carried the nest over to the barrel. The rest of us followed with the blaze at our backs. He picked up one baby by its short tail. The mouse kicked in midair reflexively. Dad placed it in the water and let go. I peered over the rim to watch it. The mouse managed to hold its head and tail out of the water and swam in tight little circles. Round and around it went, not knowing how to escape. I didn’t even see the bass approach from below. All at once, there was a “bloop” and the mouse disappeared.

I stared at the water, not noticing my parents watching me carefully. The moment of truth. They expected a bawling mess any second screaming about the horrible event. They held their breaths as I watched a stillness in the water push the ripples away from the scene of the crime.

I gasped. “Get another one! Get another one!”

My brother was horrified at my response. I looked at him.

“What?”

He stared. “You’re cruel!”

Dad laughed and mom looked relieved. I demanded that another mouse meet the same fate as its sibling. And another. And another. The bass didn’t return for the fourth baby mouse.

“I think it’s too full,” dad explained.

Party pooper.

Since the fish wouldn’t eat the last baby, dad crushed its head under his boot to save it from starvation. I thought it was a waste as he tossed the miniature body into the blackberry bushes. I could’ve used it as bait for larger fish at the lake.