4. Mama’s Nice Little Man

Presently the report came into the kitchen that the burning barn was doomed. The Isenbarger buggy had been pushed out into the alley, half-consumed. One woman thought it might have been better to let it burn, and collect full insurance. All attention was now centered on saving our barn. The men threw water on the exposed side and the younger ones plastered it with snowballs.

Perhaps I have delayed over-long in telling you that our faithful Mrs. Morland, arriving early on the scene, had peremptorily cleared a space at one of the windows and had taken me on her capacious lap, for surely a member of the jeopardized family deserved a good look. I was fascinated.

Mrs. Morland’s bad habit of tugging me off my feet and cuddling me had never pleased me until now. This time I was grateful. I thanked her prettily and smiled. She was promptly responsive to my appreciation and hugged me.

As I have remarked earlier, the kitchen was crowded. Mama had filled the cooking stove with wood, and the temperature may have been comparable with that of Isenbarger’s barn. (Seeing that this narrative is going to make you sick, anyhow, I may as well proceed with the kitchen atmosphere.) This event occurred long before the discovery of m-u-m, and the little bottle that makes household air seem country-fresh had not yet reached the market. This kitchen was no fit place for a terrified little boy, not fully recovered from an illness, but fully loaded with currants.

When the roof of Isenbarger’s barn fell in, with a thunderous crash and a mountain of flames that sent everybody scurrying for his life, I sagged back into Mrs. Morland’s arms.

“Don’t look at it, any more, dear,” she murmured, drawing my face tightly against her plunging neckline.

Of course you have seen these currants coming up, in this story. Perhaps you have wondered why they had not reappeared sooner. I need not tell you that I put my currants, all of them, into Mrs. Morland’s bosom.

Scooting me gently off her lap, she rose, without a word, wrapped her shawl tightly about her, pushed her way through the transfixed crowd, and left by the front door, bound for home.

We lived in Monroeville, that time, for four years; but Mrs. Morland never picked me up again. I asked Mama if I should apologize to her, but Mama thought it would be just as well not to bring it up. Papa, overhearing, concurred in this decision. I had, he thought, brought more than enough up. If there was any explaining to do, Mama would attend to it. Papa hadn’t been angry about it. In fact, when Mama told him the story, late that night, when I was in bed but still awake, he had laughed until it brought on an attack of asthma, which often occurred when he laughed long and hard.

The parson’s barn, in case you are still interested in its fate, escaped destruction by the narrowest of margins. The men and boys had continued to pelt it with their squshy snowballs. The old, weather-beaten siding steamed and blistered, while the silent watchers in our kitchen held their breath. After a long period of anxiety on the part of the audience, one of the elderly firefighters was seen smiling and mopping his brow with a red bandanna handkerchief. A few of the women shifted their weight from one weary foot to the other. A couple of them yawned. A man put his head in to say that our barn was safe now. Thus did the afternoon’s horrific spectacle come to an undramatic (and disappointing) final curtain.