by Focus
© 1999 Focus, all rights reserved
One Thanksgiving morning, when I was about 7 and Lois was about 4, some cattle escaped from the pasture. Dad saddled up Babe to go round them up and put them back inside the fence. Lois and I were delighted when he said we could go for a ride with him. He put Lois in front of him, and me up behind, and we headed off. We found the cattle, and herded them to the corral behind the barn. Grandpa Fred had been standing by the butane tank, but he came over and opened the gate to let the cattle in, then closed it behind them.
Grandpa held the reins while Dad dismounted, and lifted Lois and me down. Then Dad put me back on, in the saddle. I was delighted that I was going to get to go for a ride by myself. I was on the horse, but Grandpa had not yet given me the reins when suddenly there was an explosion!
Babe reared, twirled, and took off at a dead run. Dad started shouting, and running after us. Lois, crying, stumbled across the furrows chasing Dad.
When Babe reared, I nearly lost my seat, but I held on for dear life. I wasn't centered on her back now, but sliding off toward the left. When the path turned right, Babe turned right too. I slipped a little further to the left. I was barely hanging on, with my right knee hooked over the saddle, and my hands tightly gripping Babe's mane. Then we came to the paved road. Babe turned onto it, and I fell off! I still have a vivid image of the mare's underside, as she leapt over me. Once she realized that I had fallen, Babe stopped her headlong flight. She came back, and nudged me with her nose. "What are you doing down there?" she seemed to ask.
What had happened? The man had overfilled our butane tank. In the heat of the day, the gas expanded inside the tank, building enormous pressure, too much pressure. The tank exploded! It split at the seams. One end of the tank went east, about a quarter of a mile, crossing the yard, the road, a field, a creek, a pasture, and landing in a cotton field.
The other end of the tank came west, toward us. It shot right in front of Babe's nose! (Which is why Babe decided she should depart so precipitously.) It went through the barn, splintering the wood as if it were nonexistent. It removed the door of a china cabinet stored inside the tackroom, without cracking the dishes inside it! It tore up a saddle, tore through the back wall of the barn, flew through the corral, shearing off about 12 railroad ties that were the corral posts, went across a field, and landed about a quarter of a mile away, in the next field.
We were lucky. Babe could have been decapitated. Grandpa could have been decapitated. Dad could have been smeared. My foot could have caught in the stirrup, and I could have been dragged to death. And the butane could have caught fire, incinerating all the buildings and everyone at the farm. We were extremely lucky.