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Mama! Mama! Michelle?s On Fire
Mae Waupoose
Copyright © 2020 Mae Waupoose
All rights reserved
First Edition
Fulton Books, Inc.
Meadville, PA
Published by Fulton Books 2020
Everything written in this book is a true story. All names are of actual people. Other patients’ full names will not be used to protect the identities of the individuals.
ISBN 978-1-64654-586-5 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-64654-587-2 (digital)
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Michelle Waupoose
Age 11
Michelle is wearing the dress the Shriners gave her to wear while riding with the Shriners in the Labor Day Parade.
Mary Waupoose
Age 10
Mary, Michelle’s sister, was the first to warn their mother of Michelle’s accident.
Chapter 1
February 4, 1979, started out like any other Sunday morning in our rural Wisconsin home. The sun, shining through the living room window, cast a warm and cozy glow across the living-room carpet. But it was deceiving. Outside, the frozen ground was covered with two feet of snow. The temperature was below zero. It was too cold to take the kids out. Instead, we chose to stay home and watch church on television.
We had thirteen children in all. Two belonged to my husband by a previous marriage. The seven youngest still living at home, ranged in age from five to fourteen. My husband’s sister, Bernadine, also lived with us. She was in her midforties. All ten of us were sitting in the living room, watching church and patiently waiting for our noon meal to finish cooking. The smell of roast beef and onion filled the room.
My husband, Jim, casually remarked, “When church is over, I guess I’ll go down in the basement and build a fire in the barrel heater. By the time we are done eating, it’ll be warm enough down there, so I can sweep the floor.”
Ten-year-old Michelle was always the first one to volunteer for anything. “Dad, I’ll go build a fire right now if you want me to.”
“Thank you, Michelle.” She was already on her feet and headed for the kitchen. He said, “You can use a litte fuel oil. It’s in the big can in the back of my pickup truck.”
“Okay, Dad,” she called over her shoulder as she walked out the back door.
Michelle was a very intelligent and conscientious child. She had built fire many times before and never had a problem with it. A few minutes later, we heard the outside basement door close. Nine-year-old Mary stood up. “Dad, I’m going downstairs to help Michelle.”
“Okay, Mary.”
The inside trapdoor to the basement was in a hallway off the kitchen. We heard the hinges squeak as Mary opened it. A few short minutes later, our quiet Sunday morning changed to a nightmare. Mary came running up the stairs, screaming, “Mama! Mama! Michelle’s on fire!”
Chapter 2
Jim was a logging contractor. He always carried a supply of gasoline and fuel oil in his red Chevrolet pickup truck. The fuel oil was in a five-gallon can and was used for the heavy logging equipment. The gas was stored in a one-gallon can and was used primarily for chain saws. Jim assumed Michelle would use the fuel oil.
When we heard Mary scream, we both ran to the basement stairway. Michelle was standing at the bottom of the stairs on a landing. Both legs of her olive-green cotton corduroy slacks were ablaze.
I yelled, “Roll on the floor, Michelle!”
She obeyed immediately and disappeared from sight. I think I flew down the stairs because afterward, I couldn’t remember touching any of them. Her dad was right behind me. By the time we reached her, she had rolled several feet across the cement floor, over a discarded mattress, and was lying near the woodpile. I knelt down at one side of her; Jim knelt down at her other side. We had bought the kids new winter jackets. The old ones were lying on the floor until I could find time to wash them. I grabbed two and tossed one to my husband. We quickly laid the jackets across her legs. Almost immediately, the jackets burst into flames, but not before they smothered out part of the fire. We threw them aside and grabbed two more. Again, they burst into flames, but more of the fire was out.
I grabbed the last two. The results were the sane, but both of her pants legs were still burning. As my husband started ripping off the rest of her pants leg, I grabbed the only thing within reach, an old trampled-down brown paper bag. It burst into flames too, but not before it smothered out more of the fire. I glanced quickly around the room. There was nothing within reach. There was a patch, the size of a grapefruit, still burning near her ankle.
A thought flashed through my mind. I remembered when I was a young child. The little girl next door fell into a bonfire. My dad heard her scream and ran to her rescue. Later, I recalled him telling my mother, “I smothered the flames out with my bare hand.” He only had one hand. If he could do it with one hand, I could do it with two. I hooked my thumbs together and laid both hands on