Prairie Fire

Many years ago in the olden times in Merry Olde England, there lived a priest who felt it was his calling not only to save souls but to beautify the environment for his parishioners and himself in those somewhat brutish times.  Like the priest in Romeo and Juliet he was in charge of the garden.  His aesthetic method involved flowers.

    It was great to have the sanctuary decorated week after week with seasonal blooms, pleasing to the eye and the nose as well.  Even his fellow clergymen found it uplifting to have the communal table festooned with blossoms at meal times.

    But then it got to be too much.  When the local dray man exited the church grounds after stacking a load of firewood he had delivered to the brothers to find his draft horses’ collars decorated with leis, he decided enough was enough. He remonstrated with the priest, but to no avail.   After visiting with some of his fellow tradesmen who were influential in the community at the time, they agreed to consult secretly in violation of the open meetings laws.

      The lot fell upon the blacksmith, Hugh, a huge man, the biggest man in the community, to visit with the good father.  Following his instructions, the blacksmith called on the priest who attentively listened to this not-so-gentle giant, one of the sheep of his earthly fold.

    Voila!  The problem was solved. From that point forth, the priest confined his floral creations to the church and its grounds.

     Moral:  Only Hugh can prevent Florist Friars.

    Oh well.  This week we had a gas fryer. 

   Make that a grass fire.  It all started a couple of weeks ago when a friend asked if she could use our burn barrel.  They had a bunch of old papers, insurance, investments, etc. that contained personal information useful to identity thieves. The papers should be destroyed.

      She further related an experience of another neighbor who had hauled a bunch of old paperwork to the landfill, only to be called a few days later by another neighbor who reported that she had retrieved a bunch of documents from the landfill, in violation of the many signs on the premises forbidding scavenging.  The scavenger found the papers of historical significance.  The discarder felt her privacy had been invaded and wished she had pursued other means of discarding personal documents.

    Lesson learned, our friend decided burning would be preferable to shredding due to the large number of documents.   So on Monday she called and wanted to know, as there was little wind, would it be a good day to use our burn barrel.  Yes, fine, but there wouldn’t be anybody here.  I would get the hose ready.  She thought I was joking, but I assured her I wasn’t.

    So, I connected the hose to the faucet, a nozzle to the hose.  I didn’t turn the water on, fearing I would forget and when it gets cold at night, it would freeze and cause lots of damage.  I took off to help the Lions pack and deliver food baskets to the less fortunate among us.  The Goodwife went to her Alzheimers’ meeting—the support group, not the sufferers’ gathering.

     About an hour and a half later, my cell phone rang.  A fire up at our place our friend reported.  At first I thought she was joking.  After all, I had left the hose at the ready.  And the fire department had been there two times previously in past years putting out fires I had started.

      She was on her way to our place as she called.  She said she didn’t see any smoke.  Then she said, “Oh my gosh!” and I knew it wasn’t a joke.

   I leapt from the pickup I was packing with food boxes and jumped into my own pickup.  Up the hill I raced.  I, too, saw no smoke until I got nearly home.  The gate to the neighbor’s pasture was open and soon I saw four fire trucks, three pumpers and the spare tanker.  In the yard was an ambulance with two EMT’s and the Emergency Management Service boss lady’s SUV.  One of the EMT’s was spraying a little water around my firewood stack.  It suffered little damage.

     The fire circled the firewood pile, took to the ditch, crossed the fence and started in on the pasture.  By the time I got there, the fire fighters had it all but out.

     My friend had tried to stamp out the little blaze that escaped the bottomless barrel.  He realized that wouldn’t work, so he grabbed the hose.  Nothing, so he ran to turn on the water, and ran back.  Still nothing.  He went to check for kinks.  None.

      By then the water had reached the end of the hose, but the fire had reached his car and was under it.  So he moved his car.  By then the fire had reached the wood pile and beyond.  The 100 feet of hose couldn’t reach that far.

    So he found another section of hose, took off the nozzle, added the new hose, but by then the fire had gone under the fence and was out of reach of 150 feet of hose.  He called his wife who called 911 who sent the fire department.

     Nothing got hurt, really.  The plastic garbage can got a little hot and deformed a bit.  Thank goodness for the fire department.

      My reputation as a fire bug in the community will be a cinch.  If I come home some day and find my fire barrel missing, I will understand.

      My friend felt really bad (and exhausted after all the running he did).  As I pointed out, the fire department knew exactly where to go.

     The truth is they have been in the neighbor’s pasture many times, not just three.  The reason, there is an electrical substation that serves the town.  Many wires come and go from the substation.  In times past, a windy day would cause lines to swing and get too close to one another.  There would be an arc and the sparks would ignite the dry grass.  The dry grass is nearly as volatile as gasoline.  A light breeze will send flames racing across the land.  Little wonder that wild fire was a huge worry to the settlers of the plains.

     

      Notice the snow still in the terrace bottoms.  The smoldering items are cow pies.  I realize again how important cow “chips” were to the settlers when they first came to the treeless prairie.  They burn slow and hot.  A couple of them in your kitchen range would fry your bacon and more.  Here they will smolder all night.  They won’t be much of a problem, though.  The grass fuel is gone and the pies don’t pop or spark.

      So all is well that ends well.  The moon slowly rises in the east over the burn scar. . . .