The Widow Farmer’s Hands

She had laid her baby to sleep in her bassinette and went to Mrs. Fortain’s, up the road for a visit. Mrs. Fortain owned the nearby mobile home park.

Once there, they began to chat about this and that, but were suddenly interrupted by a sound of the nearby Yurok Volunteer Fire Departments siren.

“Look,” Mrs. Farmer exclaimed, “I can see the fire truck coming this way!”

The red vehicle turned off U.S. 101 onto the gravel road of Sanders Court, and raced by Fortain’s Mobile Home Park.

Without another word the Widow Farmer ran into the road and towards her house. Smoke and flames were already pouring through the roof.

“My baby!” she cried as she raced into the front yard of her home.

Pa Sanders, the fire chief and owner of Sanders Court, grabbed her by the arm.

“You can’t go in there!” he said, “You’ll get killed.”

“Let me go!” she shouted, breaking free and running into the flaming house anyway.

Dashing through the smoke and flames, she scooped up her child, then started to make her way out. But, overcome by the smoke, she passed out, fell, and would have died with her baby in her arms had a fireman not found and carried her out.

Fortunately the baby wasn’t harmed; the Widow Farmer though, was badly hurt. Soon an ambulance arrived, taking her to Seaside Hospital.

There doctors found her hands to be horribly burned. And though they did their best to heal them, they were left scarred.

Weeks became months, and months became years. The Widow Farmer’s baby grew into an adult, she married and eventually moved away.

When I was ten-years old, the Widow Farmer was babysitting my brother, sisters and me when I noticed her hands. It was something I had seen before, but had never really paid attention too.

“You’re hands are ugly,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Tommy,” the elderly woman said quietly, “They are ugly, aren’t they?”

She must have been hurt beyond words, because I remember the tears in her eyes.

“Do you know why I have ugly hands?” asked the Widow Farmer.

Then she told me the story. She told of the fire, of how she was held back, the wild dash into the burning house, how she lifted her daughter from the crib, of how she fell, of being rescued and how badly she burned he had been.

At that moment I realized she had done something heroic.

“My hands were beautiful back then,” she finished.

“Mrs. Farmer,” I said trying to choke back my shame, “they’re beautiful!”