A tale for another time

In my story about fireworks, I mentioned that I’d had a close encounter with the things and said that would be another story for another time. Well, this is the story and this is the time. Bear with me – I promise the tale will be mercifully short.

Several years ago, I was at a backyard barbecue with some friends. Beer and other beverages of the ethanol species were in plentiful supply, as were willing partakers thereof. That, coupled with really good barbecued ribs, was a recipe for disaster.

We were sitting around the patio table after eating, just chatting and joking, when Tom, one of the guys, hopped up and ran inside the house. I suppose I should mention that the party was at Tom’s house, just for completeness of the saga. Anyway, he came running out a few minutes later carrying a large coffee can that was stuffed to the brim and beyond with 1½” firecrackers.

He sat back down and proceeded to light the things one at a time and toss or flip them out into his yard. I guess he needed to put more bang into the party or something. Apparently so did everyone else, because we all started laughing and making snide comments. You know: partying.

Until.

Tom lit one of the firecrackers and flipped it, ostensibly down-range as he’d been doing. The problem is that this one hit the table’s edge and ricocheted down to the patio, then off Diana’s foot, and came to rest an inch or so away. The fuse, of course, continued merrily smoking away and growing shorter and shorter.

Without thinking, I reached down to grab the thing, intending to scoop it up and toss it into the yard. Yeah, right. It exploded just as my hand closed around it. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the inside of my hand, followed by a blow torch. And this person hadn’t bothered being any sort of gentle about it, either. I was initially too stunned to do anything, then sure that I’d find my fingers somewhere out in Tom’s back yard. I took a quick inventory, though, and realized my hand and fingers were still intact, although blackened by the gunpowder.

Everyone, it seemed, was yelling – or laughing, the louts – and asking me if I was okay. Hel, NO, I wasn’t okay – I’d just had an explosive device go off in my hand, ferchrissake! I needed medical attention, dammit! And I needed copious amounts of anesthetic, preferably of the liquid variety. And I needed sympathy – lots of it. Well, since I’m a medic, I managed to get the medical attention – lessee, normally there are five fingers, four of which have three parts and the other two: check. And I made sure I got that anesthetic. Dr. Guinness makes some wonderful and powerful anesthetic medicine, let me tell you.

But did I get the sympathy? Do I even need to ask? Not only were these, my so-called friends and family, unsympathetic (after the initial inquiry into my health, to their credit), they were downright derisive. Hmph! I could have just gone to work if I’d wanted that kind of ‘tude.

Here’s the thing: I was lucky. We’ve all heard of these things blowing hands and fingers off. Instead, my paw was only swollen and painful for about a week or so. The palm also had a mild burn ... but it was still firmly attached to my wrist. Lucky.

You know, I told this to a friend a day or so ago. She asked me if I thought I was the type who would have thrown himself onto a grenade to save his buddies. The sobering truth is that I think I am.

The Auld Scot