Fire: Servant or Master

The Old House was in rural Minnesota. It's not quite so rural now as it was then, but even then there were a fair number of new houses.

Several built by the same family. The people who sold The Old House to us kept the barn because the man used it as a cabinet shop. He provided cabinets for new construction. They built next door. The man's brother built next to him. Then, when one of the daughters got married, she built next to her uncle.

Going the other way, the family which built next to us moved: about 1,000 feet to the south. Then another of their children got married and built between them and us. So they built five out of six houses, and owned the sixth at one time. All of those houses are still there - except for The Old House. And I noted that someone built another house in the midst.

But it was still rural. We all had septic systems and well water instead of city provided sewer and water. The little town had no water tower.

In its heyday The Old House encompassed at least a mile of property going north to south. Not sure about east to west. When we lived there a road went by on the east side of the house, and a railroad track on the west side. The railroad was considerably further away from the house than the road, but you could count on being awakened at least twice every night as trains thundered through the crossing, which was also next to our property. The entire house would shake until the last car was gone. For those long freights that could take as much as five or ten minutes.

When we lived there The Old House's property had been reduced to five acres. Most of it field. I remember a couple of years Old Farmer Smith, who lived across the street, rented the field from us and planted field corn. Not only did my folks get paid for his planting, but he agreed that we could harvest some of the corn for our suppers. It was field corn as opposed to sweet corn, but with the right amount of butter and salt it tasted just fine.

Eventually, Farmer Smith got too old to farm as much as he used to and he quit renting the field. Then it just grew up with weeds and tall grass. A nice fire hazard.

Daddy had the solution. A controlled burn.

For us kids this was an exciting time. We got to play with fire.

There was no burning permit. Not back then. Not out in the sticks. But Daddy was no fool. He knew better than to burn on a windy day, or in the day, for that matter. The burn would take place as the sun set. Generally, this meant lighter winds. He would step outside and smoke a cigarette, walking around and letting whatever wind there was blow against him. After gauging the danger he would either declare the burn canceled until another day, or that it was on.

I'm guessing the area to be burned was about three acres. We would generally start at the northeast corner of the field. Before lighting any fires we would haul out several large tubs. Then hoses would be connected and the tubs filled with water. Then burlap bags would be produced (potatoes came in burlap bags in those days - if one bought them by the hundred-weight) and soaked. Once that was done Daddy would light another cigarette and let the match fall to his feet.

He would stand back and watch as the fire spread, stamping out all its efforts to go east or north. One of his children would follow the fire's path south, and one would follow it west. Daddy would then walk to the southeast corner and repeat the ignition sequence. Again, one would follow the fire north, to meet the southward bound flames, and one would follow the fire west. Daddy would move to the southwest corner.

Eventually, fires would be started at each of the field's corners, and between Daddy, Mother, and six of their seven children (Ranlen was up north) the fires would be contained in a large rectangle. Eventually a complete border would be formed and then all the fire herdsmen would gather on the leeward side of the field to catch any sparks that thought to escape. I remember how thrilling and exciting it was to watch all the flames coming together. It looked like a terrible disaster, and I remember one of the neighbors actually panicking once and thinking it was out of control. But just as the flames reached their pinacle, they went out. Nothing more to burn.

The fires would go out and Daddy would instruct us to stick around and make sure all embers were out. Then he and Mother would return to the house to watch television. We stayed out until it wasn't fun anymore to run through the smoking ashes. At that point we would take our wet burlaps sacks and smack anything that hinted of fire. Satisfied, we went into the house, too.

I was reminded of this because recently there was a grass fire not too far from where The Old House used to stand. Nearly every year there is a grass fire in that same area, and every time it is caused by the same thing: some idiot doing a burn on a windy day.

People just don't understand. You don't burn during the day when the sun is hot and the wind is strong. You burn during the evening, when dew fills the grass and the winds take a respite until dawn.

People just don't understand. If the wind decides to stay up late, you don't burn. Wind and fire are a horrible combination. Do you smoke at the gas pump? Well, actually, I have seen idiots do that, too.

Common sense, people. Pick your evening (not day) to burn. Have plenty of help. Have plenty of water and burlap bags. And if it's windy, reschedule. It aint worth it, people. Those idiots who cause hundreds and thousands of acres of land to burn wind up paying for it. Big time. It isn't cheap to be forced to hire professionals to come and put your fire out. Sometimes, people just don't think. That was always Daddy's big peeve with people. He hated stupid. Whenever he came down on me it was generally because I had been stupid.

Of course, it was Daddy who burned down the house. He found an old air filter holder in the weeds and wanted to clean it up. How did he do this? By using gasoline and a wire drill. The wire against metal caused a spark, igniting the fumes which ignited the dish of gasoline. Startled, Daddy jumped away, knocking the gasoline cup over and spilling it onto the lawn mower - which I had just filled with gas in preparation for mowing the lawn. The lawn mower's tires caught fire and burned slowly, heating up the mower's fuel tank. Daddy and I were shoveling dirt into the port, trying to smother the fire into submission. Daddy has just turned away from the door, and I was just heading back to it when I heard the explosion and saw the liquid fire spray the entire room. I don't think the house lasted twenty minutes after that.

No one yelled at Daddy for being stupid. But he punished himself to death. He only lived a year-and-a-half himself.