House Fire

Open bedroom windows permit an autumn breeze to glide into the room. The air carries the message of the season’s change from brutal Summer humidity to crisp Fall temperatures. A gentle and steady rain drums pleasing rhythms on the surfaces of our roof, road and driveway.

The scent of wet pavement fuses with the fragrance of recently-extinguished fires. The fires are another indicator of the transition into Fall, blazing beacons drawing residents from the cooled comfort of air-conditioned interiors for the warmth of an outdoor flame. 

A heavy blanket hugs my sleepy body as I drift to sleep, rekindling the memories of our evening’s fire pit. We hosted the first outdoor fire of the season and our cul-de-sac neighbors surrounded our hardscaped fire ring. We are not only neighbors, we are friends. We take care of each other. We look out for each other.

The sound of distant sirens begin to compete with the rain for aural attention. 

A prominent hospital, located 2 miles away, not surprisingly attracts emergency response vehicles. 

The wails of these sirens increase in volume, meaning the distance between us is decreasing, ferrying curiosity about their destination.

Doubt mobilizes.

Had our fire really been extinguished?

We assumed the incoming rains that broke up the neighborhood party would quench the flames we had only recently gathered around.

Was it possible the same autumn breeze lulling me to sleep caused sparks to dance out of the bounds of the fire ring? 

The screams of the sirens arrest any cardiac calm I have. Curiosity is the primary patient now.

I jump out of bed and check the backyard fire pit. Flames tango with the rain, a choreographed tease of the fire’s spirit, daring the rain to smother her.

I shuffle to the front window.

My eyes confirm a nagging suspicion.

I see smoke rising from our neighbor’s roof line. 

Oh, crap.

“GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!” The blaring claxon of my voice alerts Jen that it’s go time. 

She doesn’t question our mission, but I clarify anyway, “Neighbor’s house is on fire!”

We know we can beat the fire trucks to our neighbor’s home. Our unprofessional life-saving skills administered now are better than well-trained first responders’ efforts later. This is the time to act.

I am the first one down the carpeted steps leading to our front door, with Jen in  tight formation behind me.

I throw open the front door and my response is literally obstructed by the reminder that we had locked the exterior glass door. 

I careen right into it. 

And when I say Jen is in tight formation behind me, I mean tight. 

She slams into me, pressing my face into a distorted caricature against the glass. 

Frantic, incoherent instructions and a brief, unproductive round of blame game ensue.

We masterfully decipher the front door lock. We sprint out, hurdle our shrubs and charge the short distance to our neighbor’s front yard.

As the lead responder, I slam on my brakes. 

As the confused wingman, still in tight formation, Jen slams into me. 

Despite no glass door to sandwich me, this collision reeks of a Keystone-Kops-meets-The-Three-Stooges spectacle.

My mind gathers the pertinent information, dismissing the parody of our response.

Did I smell smoke?

Yes.

Did I hear sirens?

Yes.

Were the sirens getting louder?

Uhm, not anymore.

Did I see fire?

Well, yea, but in the fire ring.

Did I see fire on the neighbor’s roof?

No. 

But I did see smoke. 

Or something that looked like smoke. 

Like steam. 

Like steam that would rise from a roof that had been heated by the sun and then  cooled by something like … rain.

Well, crap again.

Jen dutifully follows me as I sulk the long way home … via our neighbor’s  driveway, to the sidewalk, to our driveway; skipping the shrub-jump and glass-door-smash steeplechase.

The lengthy 30-second walk gives me reassurance that we have done the right thing, erring on the side of action and compassion. 

I sleep soundly, covered by the blanket of neighborly friendship and caring, resting on a duvet of comic relief provided by our flurried display of that  friendship and caring.

Sometimes the response to the fires in our lives are just to fan the flames of friendship.