Xavier's Barrel Fire

It was midday on our farm. I was washing dishes, when over the noise of the faucet I heard the unmistakable sobs of my seven-year-old, Xavier. He came rushing into the house, buried his face in my apron, then fell with his tush on the floor to expose a few deep red cuts that had opened up on his knees.

“What happened?” I asked, dropping to a knee and sympathetically sucking air through my teeth. “Oooh, those look deep. Howdja get that?”

“The… the bush…” he said between gulps of air. “It had all these stickers and thorns and they… they got all scraped up in my knees and stuff…”

“Woah,” boomed a deep voice from behind me. I turned my head to see who had cast such a powerful shadow over us. It was my husband, who towered above us in his dark work vest, jeans and boots. His blue eyes were piecing under his black Resistol, and I felt butterflies in my stomach the way I did when we’d first met. “Those look like some pretty nasty farm wounds,” he said.

“Yeah…” Xavier’s voice sounded breathy and was now void of tears. I rested my gaze back on my boy to see that the image of his dad before him had stirred the same adoring butterflies.

“Man oh man,” John said, not taking his attention away from the boy for a moment. “That’s too bad. I was just going to set up the barrel fire. I was going to ask for your help, but maybe you should rest until those heal…”

Xavier looked torn. Would he milk my sympathy or buck up for his dad? The decision was made in an instant.

“No, I’m ok!”

“You sure?” John said, giving me a sideways wink that again sent me aflutter.

“Yeah, I’m sure! What are we gonna burn?”

“Leaves,” said John, “and lots of ‘em.”

“I’ll get the lighter!” Xavier was up on his feet, digging through the junk drawer in a flash.

“No, no lighter,” said John. “We need matches.”

“Oh yeah!” replied Xavier, as if he’d known that all along. He walked into the living room and looked around. He wandered into the garage and looked around. He returned to the kitchen. “Mama,” he said to me. “Where’s the matches?”

I shrugged. “They’re in the barn,” said John.

“Oh yeah!” replied Xavier. He bolted through the screen door.

“Woah, woah, woah!” called John. “Hold the door open for Mama.”

“Oh yeah!” Xavier ran back to the kitchen, his knees bounding up so high as he galloped that I feared they’d knock out what was left of his teeth.

Xavier held the door open as I stepped out and leaned up against the side of the house. He was then by John’s side, entirely inseparable unless given a command.

“Is it time to light the fire?”

“No, we have to put the leaves in the barrel first.”

“Oh yeah! …Can I light the fire now?

“No, we’ll wait until nightfall.”

“Oh yeah. What about this box, can I put this in?”

“Not yet, we’re going to make a paper towel bomb out of that.”

“Oh yeah!”

“Xavier, go get that lighter fluid.”

“Sure! Can I pour it in?”

“Sure. Gently, now.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Nice job. Now go fill that bucket with water, for a safety.”

“A safety?”

“A safety.”

“Oh yeah!”

I watched my men build the most brilliant barrel fire I’d ever seen. The children and I gathered around and warmed our hands and faces as John watched reverently over us. Silently, we all acknowledged how lucky we were to be under the care of somebody so attentive and capable, and I was especially grateful to have seen him impart that power and generosity to my boy.

Lila, Xavier’s little sister, noticed the scratches on his knee by the light of the fire. “What are those?” she asked.

Xavier shrugged. “Just some farm wounds.”

“Bet they hurt,” said Lila.

“Nah, they don’t.”

“Because you’re a big, strong farmer, right?”

Xavier smiled and let his gaze fall on his dad.

“Oh yeah.”