My
little fire earlier this week wasn’t the first one I’d had, but I was a little
out of practice and might have slightly overreacted. The last fire happened
when my kids were little and we lived on Newland Hill—not too far from where I
live now.
That
time, the fault was a wood stove with a pipe too close to the ceiling and an
inexperienced fire builder—me. Probably the funniest part about the story was
that Eric was a little boy and he was in the bedroom where the fire started. He
was blissfully playing the chord organ and hadn’t noticed that the ceiling was
on fire.
I
got Eric out of the bedroom and ran to the kitchen to see what I could get some
water in to throw on the flames. I found a large mixing bowl and ran across the
floor. I looked up at the flames eating away at the ceiling and hesitated as I
thought about what a mess it would make. Then, I realized that that wouldn’t be
close to the mess the fire could make.
I
gave a mighty heave and sure enough the flames were fewer. I ran back through
and dialed my sister-in-law and handed the phone to Eric. “Tell her to call the
fire department,” I said. I knew Dinah’s number but didn’t have a clue what the
fire department’s number was, and believe it or not, we did not have 911
service.
Finally,
on one of my trips back through, I grabbed the phone and ordered the kids to go
outside. “I think I’ve got it,” I said, “but they should probably check to make
sure it isn’t smoldering anywhere.”
I
called Jim at work and Marcie, the unambitious secretary informed me that he
was on a ladder and couldn’t come to the phone. “We have a fire at our house,”
I said. “I need to talk to him now.” Needless
to say, Jim and my inlaws beat the fire department by fifteen minutes.
Later,
my sister-in-law told me that Eric’s voice was so high that she didn’t
recognize him, and all she could think of was that some little kid’s house was
on fire and in desperation, he had called her number.
When
the fire department arrived, they chewed me out for putting the fire out on my own. I really
think the house would have burned to the ground if I’d just gone outside and
waited for help to arrive.
A
few weeks ago, my ancient microwave finally bit the dust. It quit working and
smelled like an electrical fire. I wasn’t home at the time, but Eric took it
out and set it on the porch and tried to get the smell out of the house.
I
went without a microwave for several weeks much to everyone’s surprise.
“How
are you cooking your oatmeal in the mornings?” my daughter-in-law asked.
“The
old fashioned way,” I said. “I use a pan.”
I
finally broke down and got a new one because, let’s face it, that caused more
dishes to wash.
I
scoffed at my youngest son when he said I needed to rethink how long to cook
things with a “real” microwave instead of one so old it had a dial and the strength
of a strong light bulb. “We have one at work that has a higher wattage. I know
how to use a microwave,” I said.
Sure
enough, I could cook oatmeal in my new microwave and warm up my coffee when it
got cold. Not a problem.
Sunday,
I wasn’t feeling too well and thought that a baked potato sounded good. Without
a clue as to how long it took to bake a potato in the new microwave, I proudly
use the preset for “baked potato” and wandered back into the living room to
continue watching a show on my DVR.
Suddenly,
I heard a strange popping sound in the kitchen, then a slutter, and crackling.
I jumped up and as I rounded the corner, I saw a potato in full blaze in the
oven. I shut it off and without hesitation, threw some water on it. Soon I had
the fire out. Then, I remembered to unplug the microwave.
“You
should have used flour,” someone told me.
“Well
there was a small sack of flour on the counter, but it wasn’t a grease fire. The
water worked,” I said in my own defense.
“Don’t
use that microwave until you have it checked out.”
“Not
a chance,” I said. “It’s slightly melted inside the door. Good thing I bought
the extended warranty.” Or, it really didn’t matter since that was for two
years instead of one. Guess that oven’s going back under that, “in case you are
unhappy for any reason” clause.
The
house was filled with a thick haze of smoke when it occurred to me that not one
of my smoke detectors had gone off. Guess I forgot to change the batteries when
we “fell back” this year. Better put that on my to-do list before I get my new,
new microwave.
Copyright
© December 2012 L. S. Fisher
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