One would think it impossible to set a creek on fire. But that was only a minor challenge for Cousin Charley. Regular readers of this column have met Charley before as a disrupter of church revivals and perpetrator of floods. There is yet another escapade which must be recorded lest historians doubt the veracity of a tale oft told in the Boot Heel of Missouri, the land of my childhood. Charley was a natural-born hell raiser -- acknowledged leader of, and inspiration for, stripling relatives. Our Uncle Smack, a blacksmith famous for his perpetual motion machine, had a nearly-full 50-gallon canister of carbide. He had shoved it into a corner when compressed acetylene became available for welding. Previously, he had to manufacture his own torch gas with carbide and water in a hand-assembled tank. It was a risky process that made Smack nervous. When Cousin Charley discovered he could snitch a handful of carbide through a loose board in the shop wall, he thought he had discovered the mother lode. Carbide is fascinating stuff. When mixed with water it emits acetylene gas that burns with a hot, bright flame. It also makes a dandy explosive when captured in a flimsy container or when ignited in quantity. At one time it was widely used for car headlights, miners' lamps and ceremonial cannons. Carbide Bombs Charley's interest, of course, lay in its sensational properties. He soon taught his younger followers how to construct marvelous, noisy, bombs. They consisted of lard cans, a cup of water, and a teaspoon of carbide in a Bull Durham sack. For the modern generation, it should be explained that Bull Durham was a popular smoking tobacco once upon a time. It was sold in little cotton sacks with a yellow drawstring and a packet of cigarette papers pasted to the side. The combination cost only a nickel. Big-time smokers rolled their own "coffin nails." Empty Bull Durham sacks were never carelessly tossed away after the original contents went up in smoke. They had many secondary uses. Boys kept marbles, coins, lucky charms, and other small treasures in them. Girls prized them for keeping jacks, hop-scotch markers and shards of broken china for make-believe tea parties. Adults had more uses for Bull Durham bags than can be catalogued. Lard cans, likewise, were never discarded. They were ubiquitous storage containers because of their wide snap-on lids. Charley's carbide bomb was elegantly simple. A teaspoon full of carbide in a Bull Durham sack - suspended by its string above a cupful of water in the lard can. To set off the device, one had only to push it over with a stick -- a 10-footer was the favored length. If you were more daring you could run past the loaded can and kick it over. The sudden creation of gas blew off the can lid with a loud bang. We created a goodly amount of excitement the night we helped Charley pour three cups of carbide into the town's old Civil War Cannon, stuff the barrel with rags and stones then pour water down the touch-hole. Charley's Masterpiece Charley's masterpiece, however, was setting Jimson Creek on fire. Once the cannon caper had paled, Charley decided to dispose of the remaining carbide in one grand gesture. There was about 25 gallons of the stuff left in Uncle Smack's shop. Try as we might, we couldn't find a gas chamber big enough to accommodate so large a charge. Charley, genius that he was, settled on a giant blaze. After Uncle Smack had closed his smithy for the day, Charley pried off a couple of boards and wrestled the half-full drum of carbide outside. We loaded it on my coaster wagon and hauled the cargo down back alleys to the edge of town where Jimson Creek flowed lazily. Charley poked a hole into the carbide container with a hatchet then shoved the overturned can with his foot. Slowly at first, then with gathering momentum, the barrel lumbered into the water. A loud hiss and swirling bubbles told us the carbide was converting to gas. "Stand back!" Charley warned. "This is going to be a hum-dinger! This was unnecessary advice because we compatriots in crime had already advanced to the rear a considerable distance. Casually, Charley lit a match to an oily rag he had brought along for the occasion, and tossed it toward the water bubbling and hissing merrily. FOOMP! The explosion wasn't as loud as the cannon had been, but it generated enough pressure to rattle the windows of nearby houses. It didn't take long for a crowd to gather. All marveled at the phenomenon of Jimson Creek aflame. "What in Nell is it?" exclaimed Mr. Ocher, first to arrive. "I can't imagine," replied Charley with a well- feigned, puzzled expression on his face. Fire Brigade Pretty soon, the volunteer fire brigade raced up with its all-purpose hand-operated pumper, tanker, and ladder wagon. The firemen stood around for several minutes wondering what to do. How do you quench a burning creek of water? It was the consensus of those assembled that a well of natural gas had erupted. That made Mr. Ocher, owner of the adjacent land, bug eyed. Mr. Galworthy, a shrewd businessman who recognized opportunity when it came knocking, offered his opinion of the blaze. "Just an isolated pocket of natural gas, Ocher, but I'll give you $50 for mineral rights -- on the off chance." "Not on your tin-type," sputtered Mr. Ocher - visions of royalties turning his brain into jelly. Fire Chief Vainey scratched his head for awhile then allowed as how the brigade might as well do what it knew best -- squirt water on fire. The firemen sprayed the column of flame for about 10 minutes, but with out effect. "Boys," said Chief Vainey after a bit, "we look pretty silly throwing water on burning water. Let it burn." No one seemed to wonder why Uncle Smack stood around with a big grin on his face -- occasionally laughing out loud. He knew the smell of acetylene and its attraction for Charley. The flame withered and died in a few more minutes. With it went Mr. Ocher's dreams of wealth. Charley was happy, though, and could be heard murmuring to himself, "Wonder where I can get some more carbide?" |
