4 AM - 22 Degrees Fahrenheit.
The cold screamed under the door jamb fighting to escape into the warm house as if the cold couldn’t bear its own essence.
In the South, when we get weather like this, it’s unbearable. We are not geared or equipped to deal with it, much less be exposed to it. Normally, any sane person would stir the fire, turn up the gas, and cuddle up in blankets.
Not this day.
Not this hour.
We had a mission.
Something had to die.
Duck hunting was on the plate.
For those who have never hunted waterfowl, it’s akin to being at war with nature and the ducks are the airforce. You don’t see them coming until they’re on top of you and can change course like fighter jets from a mile away no matter how ‘invisible’ you think you are.
This essay isn’t about the challenges of waterfowl. It’s about heat.
We needed heat.
When you’re hunting water foul there is a very small window where these creatures will fly. If you fire at a duck at the wrong time you could go to Federal Prison. So, as a LEO (Law Enforcement Officer), my father took very seriously the nature of the law.
In order to be ready for when the sun colored the sky enough to see the birds take flight, we had to enter the blind hours before sunrise. Hence, 4 AM.
Problem: If your hands are cold, you cannot shoot a shotgun.
Answer: A pocket hand warmer.
For all the young folks here that have the automatic warmers and the reusable space gel that warms your hands, cooks your food, and heals a broken femur, in 1984 we had one option to keep our hands warm.
FIRE.
Yes, you heard me… the pocket warmers of the 1980s were tiny little ovens that you lit on fire, covered with a small lid with holes, and put in your pocket… while burning.
The fuel? LIQUID BUTANE.
So, an intelligent design, this amazing tool could keep you warm while doing freezing outdoor activities for fun. (Probably created by the inventors of Lobotomies after they were banned in the late 60s)
Back to the story…
It was cold. It was dark. And the brand new little pocket fireplace was unboxed.
My dad and I sat at the table in the living room sorting through the papers, filling the can with fluid, setting aside the little red bag, and preparing to run some well-needed safety tests. It didn’t take long to discover the necessary requirements for operating such a device. In short, they are:
One must be an absolute moron to think a fire in one’s pocket is safe.
One must be severely naive to think that the manufacturer of these devices is sane.
One must be willing to ignore all good sense and instinct.
One must be up at 4 AM, cold, and somewhat ill-equipped to think rightly.
Three lessons I will show you from the remainder of this story:
Comedy, like tragedy, always comes in threes.
Tragedy, in time, becomes comedy.
Markers are comedic monuments to intimacy, even when they hurt.
Dad lit the match. (we didn’t have a lighter)
The wick (or whatever it was) would not burn.
Dad lit the second match. Same result.
We added more fluid.
No fire.
We added fluid to the wick.
FIRE!
Placed the lid… the fire went out.
Opened the lid. Third match. No fire.
Waited. (You know, for the automatic reset)
Here is when the comtragedy starts…
In the final strike of the match, the wick is burning… we wait a few minutes, then place the lid. The tiny tin of torture burned for a few minutes and we decided to extinguish the flame until it was time to go to the pond.
We blew.
It would not go out. So — time to remove the lid. But the lid was a bit too hot. (Ironic though because we have to put his in our pockets so we can touch this with our hands outside in the cold air.) So we used an oven mitt to remove the lid.
Upon removing the lid, the tiny wick comes off… and still burns. As it sits on the table, scorching the light brown oak finish as the sun burns my paleness in the summer, Dad tries to blow it. The flame got brighter!
It would not relent. Violently smashing the miniature inferno results in the flame subsiding. We rest for a few seconds.
In a senseless zombie-like movement, Dad picks up the little piece forgetting that it was just seconds before lava red, the fluid on his fingers causes the wick to reignite.
Tossing the wick into the air, landing on the carpet, with his good hand, grabbing the burning wick throwing it back on the table where it burns a second spot, then giving up the ghost.
In the end, we have a burned table, a burned carpet, and a burned hand.
And scene.
Do you see it?
Tragedy came in threes.
Comedy ensued.
The handwarmer? It went into the cold… out into the yard. Now that would have been a story if I said the lawn caught fire. But it didn’t.
Soon, it was time to leave. I retrieved the now ice-cold hand warmer and placed it into its little red bag, climbed into the truck, and handed it to my father. He grabbed it, said a few words about the eternal curse of souls… then tossed it into the glove box.
After the hunt, other hunters joined us at home and enjoyed the story of the cursed hand warmer. We laughed often that day about the bare spot in the carpet and the charred memories of warm hands on the table.
For years, I would often grab the warmer out of the truck and place it in a prominent place. Dad would smile and laugh as he rekindled the look of anger and frustration finding the acting chops to express the limbo between anger and horror coupled with a smirk of laughter. I sent him a picture just now and I’m certain he’ll make a remark the next time I see him.
We didn’t do anything to create this moment and it wasn’t a planned outcome. In some sense, it could have been a terrible tragedy, but it was a minor pain that created a moment for us to look to when we were together, having fun, hurting, and living life all at the same time.
Look at your life this way.
Not everything will have a happy ending, but some can. Find those and hold fast to them.
That was a fun piece of theater, which as you say, is often born in moments that have gone wrong for people who are doing their best to do right.