I Didn't Start the Fire....

Well actually I did. I started a fire today in our backyard. This was no small fire, it was a bonfire that a party of fifty or more could have huddled around on a brisk late October evening, roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories. But on a ninety-three degree July day it felt more like standing at the gates of hell, waiting for the devil himself to rise from the depths and choose his next resident. With bright orange flames licking dangerously close to the outstretched branches of the still-standing oak trees it was something to behold, and fear. The garden hose that was snaked around the perimeter of the enormous wood/brush pile suddenly seemed like a futile attempt at safety. As my husband, aka Fire Marshall Jim, sprayed down the grass and the nearby branches to prevent scorching from the heat, I began to feel a knot form in the pit of my stomach. Only one side of the enormous brush pile was actually in flames and I could only imagine what was about to ensue when we had the whole pile engulfed. I envisioned our one acre lot with its fifty or so trees blazing like a forest fire as the flames leaped from tree to tree. With the neighbor standing at the ready to call for reinforcement I grabbed the hose from my husband and began to soak down the center of the pile to keep the flames from spreading quite so quickly. The heat was tremendous and I had to crouch as low as I could to keep my face from melting off my skull. Jim and I took turns trying to tame the roaring beast, beating it back with a constant hail of water. It hissed and smoked, retreated and rushed, until it was manageable. Then we eased up on the water and watched the flames dance toward heaven, crackling and whooshing, within the confines of the pit we had created. I was able to relax a little and stand guard, occasionally spraying errant flames into submission. I fully expected to hear sirens wailing and see the entire volunteer fire department lumbering into our yard. I wondered momentarily if we were breaking the law by burning within the city limits so I ran in and grabbed the hot dogs, buns, plates, and sodas. We set up a table well out of the reach of the scorching heat, speared the wieners, and attempted to thrust them toward the fire. It would be another hour before we could get close enough to roast those dogs but we eventually were able to have our lunch and chat with our neighbors. With the brush pile disappearing before our eyes three things caught my eye: four one-gallon plastic pots were slumped near the edge of the flower bed, ten feet from the fire, melted into each other like a funky garden sculpture; the leaves on one entire side of a small redbud tree that my husband had refused to cut down were shriveled and scorched to an autumn brown, contrasting starkly with the broad green leaves on the other side; and a blackened piece of newspaper that had floated up out of the brush and into the sky had landed at my feet, its only legible word taunting me - Safety!