The first time I heard "American Pie" by Don McLean was moments before my younger brother's first near-death experience of his childhood. Yes, he was a risk-taking dare-devilish child. Mclean sang, "Bye, bye Miss American Pie" on the battery-operated radio that my mom was using in an attempt to get information about the winter storm that had left my house and family without power. We'd been without power for about an hour, which meant that 4-year-old Johnny was bundled up in his favorite wool sweater featuring Rudolph, trying to stay warm. After my mom and grandma finished setting up candles throughout the house to prevent total darkness, everyone gathered at the rustic brown kitchen table. There were about six or seven of us around the table, a decently sized crowd. There were also candles scattered about the table, which added on to the theory which my brother was busily formulating. He was convinced it was someone's birthday. The lights off, the candles, the family members altogether, the upbeat tune of "American Pie"- there was too much evidence supporting his speculation. So, as any excited young boy would do, he announced "Birfday! Birfday!". And before I could even blink, everyone's attention was fixated on him, like he had suddenly grown a third ear, except Grandpa. Grandpa was busily polishing off his 5th Budweiser, one beer ahead of his normal nightly routine. Johnny grabbed a napkin and reached out to a candle. Maybe he thought the napkin would protect him from the fire like it was a magical force field (he was wrong, very wrong). The fire, like a shark in bloody water, attacked his festive wool sweater, igniting Rudolph's bright red nose. My Grandma, who previously was questioning his intelligence of assuming it was a birthday, wasn't able to truly think about his even stupider move of setting himself on fire. She went into beast-mode as some would say. She entered a different zone, ripped off his sweater, threw Johny down onto a rug in the kitchen and rolled him up as if he was the rice, cucumber, and fish in a sushi roll. In what felt like half a second he was already in the back of an ambulance and I was looking through the front door. Although the fire hadn't scarred my skin, it had made a permanent mark on my childhood. An uncontrollable beat inside my chest pounded away as the frozen windows in the front door acted as an aid by reducing the sweat pooling on my hands, helping me calm down. It all had happened so fast. My eyes were stuck to the ambulance pulling out of the driveway as if there were some kind of magnetic force. For the first time in my life, I was home alone with Grandpa after happy hour. An inhale that reassured the end of the chaotic situation wasn't followed by a relaxed exhale. "Go Go Go!" screamed Grandpa through his drunken haze, "get out there's a fire!" as he barrelled across my path out of the door. My head whipped around, my eyes widened and my heart dropped to what seemed like my feet. A growing fiery orange and red bright blob twitched and pulsated at the end of the hallway. As if it had eyes it scared me like nothing ever has or will. The fire ate up the smooth wooden floors of the house like it hadn't eaten in years, growing bigger and bigger, moving faster and faster towards him. Similar to when one locks eyes with Medusa, I was stuck. My feet cemented in place and my breath shortened and shortened. Suddenly, I was freed as the fire creepily made its down the narrow hallway towards the front door. Just outside the front door were three steps which I hurdled trying to escape the fire. The only problem was I wasn't wearing shoes and despite being dressed up for losing power, my clothes weren't ideal for the treacherous winter conditions. Jumping up and down, the freezing snow burned the balls of my feet. Trying to use my critical thinking skills I realized I had to get off my feet or there would be serious health issues. The pictures I had seen online of gruesome cases of frostbite where one's body parts would be the most unsightly shade of purple filled my mind. Lying on my back and doing what is probably some yoga position I raised my legs off the ground relieving my feet from the burning pain. The sky was pitch black with thousands of stars lighting up the sky. My childhood home was burning to the ground, but that wasn't what I was worrying about. Where is Grandpa? He was the one who alarmed me of the fire and the only one left in the house who didn't go to the hopsital with Johnny. I began to yell "Grandpaaaaaaa!" as my abs began to feel tired from my odd half-laying half-crunching position. Tears came pouring down my face, but the temperature was so cold that the teardrops froze onto my face. My body was getting colder, and colder, something had to change, lying in my front yard wasn't the right thing to do. Taking a deep breath I prepared for a legendary run. My closest neighbor's house was about a football field away. The courage inside of my stomach built up and took control of my body. My feet sunk into the 14 inches of snow already on the ground and I propelled myself forward. My left leg sunk in, I balanced, then pushed off landing on my right leg which sunk in. Over and over again, left leg, right leg, left leg, I made my way towards Mr.Walsh's house. Knocking hard, I was thrilled to see who opened the door. His tense face immediately became fully relieved as our eyes locked onto each other. A smile broke across his face and he gleamed with joy. It was my Grandpa! Had he forgotten he had left me behind? Anyways, we had both escaped the harm seeking fire which had taken my house as a victim and burnt Johny's arm. One misinterpretation by a 4-year-old had resulted in so much. Johny would never be a lefty again, as the healing process would require his left arm to have a huge cast on it, making him learn how to use things with his right arm during the time of his life where habits and tendencies are made. Our families house was burnt to the ground and had to be rebuilt. To this day I am happy that everyone survived this tragedy; however every time the family talks about it, I am reminded of my personal loss. I was an avid collector of baseball cards, including the original 1952 Mickie Mantle rookie card that was almost priceless. My first passion in life was ruined, all because of my stupid little brother Johnny. What all started with "American Pie" on the radio had turned out to be the most eventful day of my life. And I'm proud to say that Johnny, Grandpa and I went against the vintage lyrics of "American Pie", "Singin' this'll be the day that I die".
