gratitude

It was June 19, 1953, my parent’s 7^th wedding anniversary, and we were going to celebrate.  My mom made fried chicken, coleslaw, baked beans and Dad’s favorite cake, Chocolate with Chocolate Cream Frosting.  Oh yes, there was one more dish, French fries, the one dish my mom would wish she had not made.  You see, her anniversary gift from my older sisters was a deep fat fryer and it would lead to tragedy.

At the celebration were my parents, my 3 older sisters, me, my younger sister, my paternal grandparents, and one of my sisters’ boyfriends. Everyone was in the kitchen of our farmhouse. My grandparents were laughing with my dad, Judy, the youngest of my older sisters, was setting out the dishes, and my other older sisters were playing with my little sister.  I was helping mom.

I was always mom’s little helper in the kitchen. I loved to watch and help and even at the age of 6, occasionally made simple dishes for dinner.  So, when my dad asked for the catsup from the cupboard I was ‘Ruthie on the spot’ jumping up to get it.  As I reached into the cupboard, I didn’t notice the deep fat fryer was sitting, just above, on the counter. I didn’t notice that the fryer cord had dropped down with the cord looping over the knob of the door.  When I grabbed the doorknob I grabbed the cord as well, pulling the fryer, full of hot oil, down on top of me.

The world slowed down, I heard screams, I didn’t know if the screams were mine or my mother’s.  I felt dad pick me up and carry me over to our big stone kitchen sink, he started pumping cold well water over me (we didn’t have running water yet in the kitchen). Over dad’s shoulder I saw a bright light and heard a voice speak to me. “It will be ok,” it said. As Dad tried to remove my jumper he had to stop when he saw it was pulling my skin off.  So, he wrapped me in a light blanket, laid me on the couch with our dog Rex to guard me.  To this day I swear sweet old Rex spoke to me telling me “I’d be Ok”. 

In the early 1950’s there were no ambulances serving the farming community, so my dad and mom had to drive me into our little town of Oberlin to our 50-bed hospital themselves. I do not know how long I was in our little hospital, one or two weeks at the most, because, at some point, my mom received a call from a surgeon in Cleveland. That call saved my life.

Dr. George Meany called my parents in response to a write-up in a Cleveland paper about a little farm girl being burnt. He told my parents that he was coming to take me to St. John’s Hospital where he would take care of me.  From what my mom told me he was there that night taking me, with my mom, to Cleveland, and setting my mom up in the YWCA.

I would spend two months in St. John’s leaving just in time to start school and I would go back over the next 6 months to have grafts replaced with new skin. When my parents received the hospital bill, they learned Dr. Meany had paid it in full and he never charged my parents for his services. Without Dr. Meany I would have been horribly scared and disabled. His gift was life for me, and I am eternally grateful for that gift.

That accident changed my life, my very young life, forever. In school and on the street, I experienced bullying due to the scars and was afraid to wear clothes in public that revealed too much skin. Because a sunburn would damage the skin grafts, I had to wear long sleeves and jeans even in very hot weather. But there were also positives to my life. Originally an extroverted kid, I became shy, and introverted after the accident, which led me to a world of books and learning that would guide me through my whole life. Instead of playing in the sun I sat in the shade reading everything I could get my hands on.  During the summer I practically lived in our public library. During the school year I had plenty to read and study and I discovered the joys surrounding the practice of learning, study, and reading.  I have carried that practice throughout my life. Always finding something new to learn.

Every June, for the last 70 years, I have remembered that horrible moment. Yet during my ruminations I always found some good associated with that year of fear and pain. I have met people who have inspired me to be courageous and fight back the fear, bullying, isolation, and discouragement that comes with being different.  I learned to open my eyes and heart to those who were suffering with physical and mental disability and to offer them comfort and support. I realized my greatest gift from Dr. Meany may have been a body that moves normally, but he also gave me a gift of heart. He taught me that my talents didn’t depend on a perfect form, my talents were part of my soul’s heart, and I could offer up my gift of learning, of spirit, and love to all who needed it.  Dr Meany was nothing like his name. He was one of the kindest people I would ever meet and the kindness he gave me I have tried throughout my life to pass on to others.

Being severely burnt at such a young age was traumatizing. But the accident taught me I could overcome anything if I didn’t let the fear paralyze me. Yes, there have been those times when I have been struck dumb, stopped in my tracks by fear, but only for a little while. Soon I would shake my bones and tell myself “If I could survive being burnt, I can survive this”. It always works out in the end. Maybe not the way I would like it to, but all is good just the same.

Humans all too often let accidents and tragedies stop them, they become permanent victims of their lives. Blaming others for everything going wrong. But I couldn’t do that, I wasn’t going to be a victim. Taking responsibility for your actions and your decisions, good or bad, makes us stronger, smarter, more compassionate, kinder, and justice loving.  Why?  Because when we are accountable for our lives then we have more within to help others who are struggling to be accountable. We become mentors of life.

I am not saying I did any of this by myself. I had help from so many people. My tribe, my community is vast and it’s one I don’t always recognize.  Some people stayed in my life for years, others dropped in for just a moment and then passed on.  I must admit I don’t know all my tribe because some are just shadows passing in the night.  Yet all of them have given me something that helped me in one way or another. Dr. Meany was one of my tribe; my first grade teacher, Miss Worcester, was another one.  The kind soul who helped me cross the street when I broke my ankle is one, and nearly all the ministers I’ve known are also on my list. In 70 years, I have had so many become members I couldn’t tell you all their names.

What I’m trying to tell you is my story is only one of many, you have yours as well. You have had accidents, tragedies, you have had joys, and sorrows but somehow you made it through, not by yourself but with the help of your tribe. In my long years I have learned to acknowledge those who saw me through some of the toughest times, and those who celebrated the best times.  The month of June is my time to acknowledge my tribe of kind, patient, tolerant, and forgiving community.  That is the takeaway from this sometimes-rambling essay that I would like you to learn. Recognize those who have been there in your toughest times and joyous times. People whom your life wouldn’t be what it is without those who lifted you up, chastised you, cradled you, and mentored you. Give them their dues. If not in person, then in your prayers.

Ruth Jewell, ©June 19, 2023