“Kent had to be ‘sawed out’
at neighbor’s today.”
-
journal entry of Clarence Stolt, April 16, 1966
Some memories just stay with you. There’s one in particular I've hung onto for some reason, like an old snapshot pulled from a box full of memories. In fact, the more time goes by the more it seems like it never really happened. But it did.
It’s more than a
little hazy now, but I still remember the time my father took my mother and me
to see a re-release of Gone With The Wind
that was showing in theaters in 1966. Dad was something of an amateur
historian and a bona fide Civil War buff, and from him I picked up a playful boy’s
interest in soldiers and battles of that era. So, being all of six years-old at
the time, I gladly tagged along when they told me it was a movie about the
Civil War.
What they didn't tell
me was that it was a four-hour marathon bore with too much talking, kissing and
crying. Where were all the battle scenes? The cavalry charging and the cannons
blazing? Neat stuff like that. As for the troubles of Rhett Butler and Scarlett
O'Hara, well, I didn't much give a damn either.
However, there was one
scene in the movie that did stick in my mind. It takes place during the siege
of Atlanta and starts with a panoramic shot showing the streets literally
covered with the dead and dying men of the Confederacy. Cut to a crowded hotel
lobby serving as a makeshift field hospital. Surrounded by stretchers and the anguished
cries of the injured, a white-haired doctor stands with sleeves rolled up and
his shirt smeared with blood; haggard and helpless to stop the suffering. He
says he hasn't been home to see his family in days. As for treating the men
around him, they're out of bandages, anesthetic and hope. When yet another
young soldier is brought before him the doctor takes a weary look at the wound,
sighs, and declares that the leg will have to come off.
What? Sitting there in that dark theater my eyes grew wide.
The soldier lets out a
blood-curdling scream, followed by a plea for mercy. "No, not my leg. Don't take my leg." Two attendants
hold him down while the doctor shakes his head, picks up a bone saw and pours some
whiskey over the blade. He bends over and there's another long, horrible scream
as the camera pulls up and the scene fades away.
Well…talk about
horrified. To these young eyes that had never seen anything of the horrors of
war, it was a new experience, to say the least. Finally the ending credits
rolled and the house lights came up. No doubt by then my butt was plenty stiff
and sore from having sat through four hours of a love story.
Fast-forward to a warm Saturday afternoon a few weeks later
– April 16, 1966, to be exact. I was goofing around with my next door neighbor
in his front yard. For some reason, or none at all, we were climbing around the
wrought iron hand railing near the front door and I happened to stick my skinny
little leg between two of the bars. Putting my weight down my left leg sank in
further. Then I decided to twist my foot back so that the toe would catch behind
another bar. I wish I could say there was a logical reason for doing all this,
but it escaped me then and it certainly escapes me now.
Anyway, my leg was
wedged in there pretty good when I decided it was time to untangle myself.
Hey, wait a minute.
Something's not – this doesn't feel right.
The more I struggled,
the more a fear started to grow. I couldn't get any leverage to free my foot or
my leg. I was stuck!
Fear was in my voice
and in my eyes. My friend stared at me rather dumbfounded before he finally
decided that he better go get his dad. So his dad comes outside, probably not
understanding at all what his own son was trying to explain. What do you mean Kent
is stuck in the railing outside?
He comes over and very gently tries to pry my limb loose,
but no luck. By now my breathing was raspy and the tears were rolling.
Not wanting to risk further
physical damage, our neighbor decided this was a matter for my dad to deal with,
so off he went to fetch him. An eerie minute or two passed. Meanwhile, I kept wiggling
my leg in a desperate attempt to free myself, which only made the situation
worse because my leg was starting to swell up. Finally the two fathers turned
the corner. Dad took one look and shook his head, no doubt thinking something
along the lines of “how the hell did the kid manage to do that?” He came over
to take a closer look, tried to pry me out himself, but my tears and fear
dissuaded him from going too far with that.
Like surgeons the two
men conferred briefly out of earshot, then quickly decided on a course of
action. Dad said he’d be right back. He headed back over to our house and
returned a minute later. Now there was something in his hand.
Sweet Jesus, he's got a saw!
I'm wailing now.
Wailing and blubbering at the same time so that none of my words are coming out
as actual words. I'm trying to say, “No, don't do it. Please don't do it.” But
they don't hear anything but the crying and the blubbering. Dad comes over and
tries to calm me down, but to no avail. He gently puts a hand on my thigh and
brings up the blade. And he's not even going to use any whiskey to sterilize
the blade.
Finally it comes out:
"No, not my leg!"
Suddenly the two guys
start to laugh. I can't believe it. My mind is pulsating with visions of torn
flesh and naked bone, not to mention a lifetime of hobbling around on a wooden
leg, and they're laughing at me?
This can't be happening. Dad could be temperamental from
time to time, but this was ridiculous. He put his hand on my leg and I closed
my eyes in anticipation of the first searing jolt of pain.
Of course, the blood
and pain never came. (Now wouldn't this be a hell of a story if it did? But let’s
keep it real, shall we?) The next sound I heard was the scratching of metal on
metal. I looked down and saw not a bloodbath but the steady movement of a
hacksaw cutting into the wrought iron railing.
I suppose at that moment I should have been relieved, a
little embarrassed maybe, but relieved. No, all I cared about at that point was
getting out of this devilish trap and running away as fast as I could. So when
Dad finally stopped laughing and cut through the bar on one end enough to bend
it back and set me free, that's exactly what I did. I ran like hell. On two
skinny, but very sound legs.
A big part of growing
up is learning to separate the irrational fears in our head from the slightly
more rational world that really is out there. Maybe this was the first step for
me in that regard and that’s why I still remember it. Oh, I still harbor my
share of irrational fears, even these many years later. Doesn’t everybody? They’re
just not quite as irrational as they were when I was six years old.
Yes, I did learn something about the hard realities of life
that day; it’s a lesson I have carried with me all these years. And I can safely
say that I have never stuck my leg through another metal railing since.
~~~
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