Fire is a relative matter

April 4, 2002

Dear Patty,

At 12:30 on a peaceful Saturday night in the neighborhood, DC and the dogs were asleep upstairs and I was downstairs watching a movie when a strong light suddenly began playing against the living room windows. Peering out, I saw a police car searchlight pointed directly up our driveway.

The presence of the police in our neighborhood on a Saturday night is hardly unheard of, though becoming less common. Is it a car burglary, Peeping Tom, an escape from the juvenile hall nearby? I wondered. As the police car prowled, neighbors in the apartment buildings across the way came out on their porches to see whatever could be seen.

When the rumble of a fire truck broke the quiet on the street and more lights flashed against the apartment buildings, I went out on the front porch to see what could be seen. But the neighborhood was disturbed over a smell, not a sight.

When I smelled it I began sprinting through the house for the back yard.

My father-in-law is a fine man. He is the organist for his church, travels the Earth giving free dental care to needy people, plays the trombone in the orchestra when one of the local high schools puts on a musical, belongs to organizations that do good civic deeds, and is glad to help out his unhandy son-in-law when the house breaks down again and again.

That very Saturday afternoon he'd cleared leaves and brush out of our back yard so the snakes that begin appearing in the spring won't have so many hiding places to surprise DC. He fits the description of a "hail fellow well met."

Nine years ago when we were discussing getting married, DC quizzed me about my debts (some) and previous marriages (none). I had no such questions. In retrospect, there's one I should have asked: Any pyromania in the family?

My father-in-law likes fires and things that explode. A pile of something is always smoldering when we go to the cabin. He, not the nieces, is always the one to suggest firing off a few bottle rockets to warm up for a holiday extravaganza to follow.

He loves fireworks so completely that the rest of the family requires him to just sit back and enjoy them. No lighting of fuses allowed.

On the afternoon before the night of the flashing lights, my father-in-law decided to burn that pile of brush and leaves. I, someone who always minds Smokey Bear, was nervous. But my father-in-law reassured me the fire was safe and under control.

The next thing I knew, the fire department was stopping for a visit.

The pile had reignited. It was the size of a small campfire, but putting out lots of fragrant smoke.

The moment presented a moral dilemma.

Do I run and tell the firefighters the problem is in my back yard and should be under control as soon as I find a hose and put some water on it, or do I try to douse the fire quickly so I can let them be on their way?

Just as the water began doing some good, a fire official pulled an SUV up into the park behind our fence, and I confessed.

"Put it out good," he said.

I put it out good for the next half hour.

My father-in-law is temporarily banned from our back yard, but I have a bigger concern about that heredity issue and several grocery bags stuffed to the brim with fireworks sitting in our kitchen.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.