BY NORMAN ROZEFF
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the second part in a series by local historian Norman Rozeff. Find part one at www.ValleyStar.com
Last week the reader learned of an ugly accident in the early days of Harlingen town. Many years later Lyman Cunningham would reflect on the incident that had occurred when he was a teenager. In his reflection, we not only learn of his exact treatment by the Drs. Letzerich but also some color of the still primitive area. Here is what Lyman had to say:
Are Modern Methods and Techniques in the Treatment Of Third Degree and Lesser Burns An Improvement?
Prelude Half a century has passed since the personal and unforgettable experience, which is later on, described in relation to the following preliminary remarks:
The story itself is not an attempt to dramatize an incident that occurred in one person’s life so many years ago. It is rather, the result of an impulse to satisfy a persistently recurring sense of obligation, not only to the potential victims of future fires and explosions, but it is also intended as a small measure of belated tribute to the memory of two doctors, the brothers Letzerich, who in addition to their professional practice also operated a pharmacy and general merchandise store [It was actually their brother Bruno who operated the pharmacy and store] in the lower Rio Grande Valley of Texas, which at the time was just emerging from a dense wilderness of semi-tropical vegetation.
Appreciation like wisdom grows ripe with time and with its ripening comes a sense of responsibility. In this sense and in the light of my own experience; I sometimes have the uncomfortable conviction that many victims of burning could have been spared much physical pain, in regard to the duration of healing, as well as much mental anguish that often result from disfiguration (sic), especially in the case of female victims. It is my well-founded opinion that this has occurred much too often and unnecessarily.
Time after time, we have read of the so-called advanced methods and medications employed in modern day treatment of third degree and lesser burns. Very often the publicity has imparted an aurora of the miraculous as well as an intimation of heroism to the treatment of some of the more noted cases, such as the Coconut Grove fire victim who was treated with a thin layer of purple dye for a period of nine months.
THE STORY It was the year 1912, when I was little more than fourteen, that my father found it necessary to leave me alone in charge of a crew of twenty five Mexicans who were employed to clear the dense thicket from a parcel of land he had purchased in the lower Rio Grande Valley. Our property was bordered by the first irrigation canal to be built in that part of the Valley and was situated on what was facetiously called the Valley Boulevard, being about four miles from the then small village of Harlingen, formerly known as Six Gun Junction.
As usual, one Saturday forenoon in late Summer, I had checked out the area of land cleared during the week and had paid the Mexicans accordingly, whereupon they departed for Harlingen and the Mexican settlement along the railroad. After they had gone, I tidied up around the cottage, tool shed and corral and then changed into fresh clothing in preparation for a trip to town for supplies. Before leaving, I had noticed several “blue rat” nests that had been left on the newly cleared land. These large rodents live singly in a large conical shaped mound or nest constructed of dry cactus pads and other debris. Because they are destructive to growing plants which in this instance were already under cultivation; it was customary to destroy their nests, which I decided to do before leaving for town.
My equipment for destroying these pests consisted of a heavy gauge journal box oil can of one gallon capacity together with a torch provided with a long handle. With due precaution, I would simply pour kerosene into the nest and then poke the lighted torch into the debris from a safe distance. After the nest is destroyed; it does not matter that the occupant escapes. It will either leave the area or be destroyed by various predatory animals such as coyotes, bob cats, eagles, etc.
After destroying the nests on the cleared land; I decided to burn out another nest that I had noticed in the strip of thickly grown thorn bush along the canal on land reserved by the irrigation company, Due to the density of the growth, it was necessary for me to hold the fuel container closely against my left side while I threaded my way through the thorny thicket with the torch grasped in my right hand and extended at arms length in advance and well away from the nozzle of the domed top container. I had nearly reached the nest when there was a terrific explosion against my side which tore the heavy metal container to finger-like shreds.
The one chance in a million had happened. Exposure to the hot sun had caused gas to accumulate in the domed top of the container which subsequently streamed through the nozzle into contact with the flaming torch….some distance away.
The force of the explosion knocked me to the ground in a semi dazed condition.
The flame and acrid odor of burning kerosene soon brought me out of my daze with the realization that I was saturated with oil and burning furiously. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and worked my way through the spiny thicket in the general direction of the canal which was nearly full of water although the day before it had been dry except for some silty muck. Although I was handicapped by the dense thicket, I eventually felt the canal bank under my feet and immediately plunged into the cold, silty water.
The cold water shocked me into the calm realization that I was seriously burned; my hair was gone as well as most of my clothing except around my belt line and the lower part of my abdomen. There was little more that wet ashes, silt and a few patches of singed cloth clinging to my raw flesh. Somehow, I managed to get back to the cottage with little delay, where I surveyed the damage in a long mirror. It was hard to believe that the blackened and bald image reflect in the mirror could possibly be the same person.
Being alone, I knew that it was urgent to get help before the after affects began to sap my energy. Fortunately, I had already harnessed a team of half wild Mexican mules ready to be hitched to the buckboard.
Without attempting to remove any of the debris, other than my belt together with the remnants of attached cloth; I gingerly worked my way into a clean shirt and duck slacks. Although the palms of my hands were badly burned, I managed to hook the mules to the buckboard and head then toward town — holding the reins as lightly as possible.
