The Power of Testimony

MARK BOUMAN || 37
had no clear idea of what that meant—​each time carefully pouring the
collected sand into the hole beside our sunken bathtub.
• • •
Our house was too far out in the country to have garbage pickup. There
was a municipal dump, of course, but Dad decided that driving our trash
to the dump would be a waste of effort when we had a perfectly empty
valley right behind the house. Each time a trash can in the house filled
up, one of us would dump it outside—​which meant that every so often
Dad would notice the trash pile was getting out of control.
“You boys go out back and get some burning done.”
We always tried not to smile when Dad handed down that particular
task, fearing he’d decide to do it himself or even give the job to Sheri.
Compared to sweeping the never-​ending sand in the house and our
newest chore—​filling the ruts in the driveway—​burning the trash pile
was nearly a treat.
We had a routine. On the way to the garbage pile, Jerry and I would
each grab a long, sturdy stick. Then as soon as we reached the pile, we’d
look for something like a frayed tarp or a garbage bag, which we’d divvy
up and wrap tightly around the ends of our sticks. A flick from one of
the Zippos we both carried and—fwoosh—​we were explorers, holding
aloft our torches. Flames ready, we’d clamber to the center of the pile,
holding the torches well away from our bodies, since more than once a
blob of molten plastic had dripped onto our exposed skin, searing us for
an instant before sputtering out. Once we were in the center, we worked
our way outward, touching our torches to anything that looked flammable:
phone books, shredded shirts, the odd scrap of lumber. All the
while, our plastic-​ fueled torches burned a bright, nearly neon blue, even
in the sunlight, and the sound of their flames—ship ship shiiiip— became
a private language, telling where to step and what to burn.
After we set fire to everything that wasn’t wet, metallic, or made of
glass, we would retreat to the edge of the pile. Still holding our torches,