Playing with fire
When I was 14, my grandfather set the lawn on fire, on his birthday.
Well, when I say “lawn”, I really mean “the stretch of grass and trees facing the road instead of the river.” About a quarter of the property burned, so, maybe three and a half acres worth of ground was ashy by the time the whole thing was said and done.
I still don’t know if it was an accident, or an intentional fire that got away from him . Every winter, my grandfather burned a little bit of the property. He’d drop a match or a cigarette and stand by, watching the low flames take the dry grass. He’d stomp them out when they got more than a few feet away from where he’d started, and then move on to another patch. The bits of yard he burned always came up greener than ever in the spring. It wasn’t just that he was a firebug - it was all for the sake of The Lawn.
He claimed that he was doing this regular maintenance when things got away from him. My dad never believed it, though. He thought Granddaddy had just flicked some ashes from one of his cigarettes (he was a 2 pack a day smoker for most of his life) and only noticed that it had caught on the grass when it was out of control.
“Dad, you’re not a stupid man. It’s the windiest day of the damn year!”
He harumphed. “It’s only January.”
“Aw, come on. You really expect us to believe you were burning today? Mom’s cooked your birthday dinner, and you’re going to come to the table smelling like smoke?”
He didn’t deign to answer that one, just took a sip of his beer and ignored my father.
Our entire goal fighting the fire was to keep it from the trees. There were two tree lines we were trying to keep the fire from - the one at the very back edge of the property on the south side, and the southwest corner. The southwest corner was the more dangerous area, because it was a weedy, swampy morass. It was a little inlet of the river1, surrounded by mangroves, tall weeds, old pines and dry hickories, and right at the end of January it was a tinderbox just waiting to alight. As soon as it got back in there, we’d have lost the whole thing.
We had old heavy blankets, buckets of water (though the well and pumphouse were clear across the property, and we had no hoses that were long enough to reach the burn, so there wasn’t much of that), brooms, and our feet. It was me, my father, my grandfather, my grandmother, and my dad’s friend Sandy3 out there stomping and beating and flailing away. We would have had four generations fighting the fire, but my grandmother wouldn’t let her mom come out to help us - very sensibly, I might add. She was over 90 and really in no shape to be fighting fires, but she was quite disappointed all the same.4
In my memory, the fire was both epic and somehow small and pathetic. The grass was short (because of course it was - this is my grandfather we’re talking about here, who insisted on a cropped lawn at all times of the year), and the flames never got above my knees. But oh how they spread. I’d stomp out one area, feeling satisfied that I had squashed the last sparks viciously beneath my sneakers, and then I’d look up from the patch of ground I’d focused on to find the fire spreading even farther on my left and right.
We called the fire department right away, of course, though my grandfather didn’t want to. He was convinced that with my dad’s help he could handle it. One glance at the situation, though, and my father sent me running back inside. I told my grandmother to call the fire trucks, and then it was fire stomping time.
The problem with calling the fire department was that we lived out in a far-flung rural part of the county, at the end of a quarter-mile-long unmarked dirt road. Despite my grandmother giving very precise directions, the chances of the fire department actually finding us were pretty slim. We'd been at it for a good twenty minutes with no sign of help when my dad hollered me over and told me to go and run to the end of the road to flag down the fire truck when it showed up.
I caught them just as they were turning down our neighbor’s driveway, and redirected them. I got to ride back to the action on the firetruck, but I was so hot and choked up from all the smoke that I barely even noticed it. I remember thinking “hurry up hurry up” as the truck slooooowly crawled along the pot-holed dirt road. I think they were afraid they’d get stuck in some of the sandy pits if they went more than five miles an hour.
The ladder truck got there just in time and doused the trees. My family had managed to keep the fire out of the slough, but the south side pines had just caught and the flames were climbing upward as we trundled across the lawn. Five minutes with the hoses, and the whole thing was done, just ashes and the persistent taste of smoke in the back of my throat for days to remind me of what had happened.
When the truck left, we stood there together, looking at the damage, quiet.
My grandfather was frowning. “Would you look at that? Tire tracks all the way across the lawn. Hrmph. They coulda stayed on the road more.”
My father threw up his hands, exasperated. “Come on, Sandy. I think I owe you a drink.” They walked off to the house together, talking quietly.
My grandmother dusted off the seat of her shorts and picked up her brooms. “Well. I’m heading back inside. I’ve got a cake to put in the oven. No candles for you, though. I don’t want to go through THAT again.” We watched her stalk across the remains of the lawn and disappear into the house.
I rubbed the grime and sweat off my forehead and sighed. My grandfather patted his pockets and produced a pack of cigarettes. As he lit up, he winked at me and said, “well, it’ll come back greener next year. You’ll see.”
For what it was worth, he was right.
~~~
1. Which my grandparents called “the slough”2
2. Pronounced to rhyme with “two”, “few”, “sue”, and “bayou”. All of which I take as proof that English spelling is a truly mongrel beast that makes no sense.
3. Sandy had just come over for a glass of sweet tea and to ask me to babysit for her son later in the week. Really, going out and playing whack-a-flame with my family was above and beyond the call of duty.
4. My great-grandmother was a very feisty woman. She used to wander around in pajamas and big black galoshes carrying these huge garden shears, hunting grasshoppers5 and chopping them in half.6
5. These things got HUGE. At certain times of the year, you couldn't walk across the yard/field without them crunching underfoot. Ugh. Really, she was doing us all a service, but it was a bit... odd, I admit.
6. Of course, because of this, my personal archetype of great-grandmotherliness is an elderly woman with snow white hair tottering around with sharp objects and viciously killing insects. This may explain a lot about me, actually.
Well, when I say “lawn”, I really mean “the stretch of grass and trees facing the road instead of the river.” About a quarter of the property burned, so, maybe three and a half acres worth of ground was ashy by the time the whole thing was said and done.
I still don’t know if it was an accident, or an intentional fire that got away from him . Every winter, my grandfather burned a little bit of the property. He’d drop a match or a cigarette and stand by, watching the low flames take the dry grass. He’d stomp them out when they got more than a few feet away from where he’d started, and then move on to another patch. The bits of yard he burned always came up greener than ever in the spring. It wasn’t just that he was a firebug - it was all for the sake of The Lawn.
He claimed that he was doing this regular maintenance when things got away from him. My dad never believed it, though. He thought Granddaddy had just flicked some ashes from one of his cigarettes (he was a 2 pack a day smoker for most of his life) and only noticed that it had caught on the grass when it was out of control.
“Dad, you’re not a stupid man. It’s the windiest day of the damn year!”
He harumphed. “It’s only January.”
“Aw, come on. You really expect us to believe you were burning today? Mom’s cooked your birthday dinner, and you’re going to come to the table smelling like smoke?”
He didn’t deign to answer that one, just took a sip of his beer and ignored my father.
Our entire goal fighting the fire was to keep it from the trees. There were two tree lines we were trying to keep the fire from - the one at the very back edge of the property on the south side, and the southwest corner. The southwest corner was the more dangerous area, because it was a weedy, swampy morass. It was a little inlet of the river1, surrounded by mangroves, tall weeds, old pines and dry hickories, and right at the end of January it was a tinderbox just waiting to alight. As soon as it got back in there, we’d have lost the whole thing.
We had old heavy blankets, buckets of water (though the well and pumphouse were clear across the property, and we had no hoses that were long enough to reach the burn, so there wasn’t much of that), brooms, and our feet. It was me, my father, my grandfather, my grandmother, and my dad’s friend Sandy3 out there stomping and beating and flailing away. We would have had four generations fighting the fire, but my grandmother wouldn’t let her mom come out to help us - very sensibly, I might add. She was over 90 and really in no shape to be fighting fires, but she was quite disappointed all the same.4
In my memory, the fire was both epic and somehow small and pathetic. The grass was short (because of course it was - this is my grandfather we’re talking about here, who insisted on a cropped lawn at all times of the year), and the flames never got above my knees. But oh how they spread. I’d stomp out one area, feeling satisfied that I had squashed the last sparks viciously beneath my sneakers, and then I’d look up from the patch of ground I’d focused on to find the fire spreading even farther on my left and right.
We called the fire department right away, of course, though my grandfather didn’t want to. He was convinced that with my dad’s help he could handle it. One glance at the situation, though, and my father sent me running back inside. I told my grandmother to call the fire trucks, and then it was fire stomping time.
The problem with calling the fire department was that we lived out in a far-flung rural part of the county, at the end of a quarter-mile-long unmarked dirt road. Despite my grandmother giving very precise directions, the chances of the fire department actually finding us were pretty slim. We'd been at it for a good twenty minutes with no sign of help when my dad hollered me over and told me to go and run to the end of the road to flag down the fire truck when it showed up.
I caught them just as they were turning down our neighbor’s driveway, and redirected them. I got to ride back to the action on the firetruck, but I was so hot and choked up from all the smoke that I barely even noticed it. I remember thinking “hurry up hurry up” as the truck slooooowly crawled along the pot-holed dirt road. I think they were afraid they’d get stuck in some of the sandy pits if they went more than five miles an hour.
The ladder truck got there just in time and doused the trees. My family had managed to keep the fire out of the slough, but the south side pines had just caught and the flames were climbing upward as we trundled across the lawn. Five minutes with the hoses, and the whole thing was done, just ashes and the persistent taste of smoke in the back of my throat for days to remind me of what had happened.
When the truck left, we stood there together, looking at the damage, quiet.
My grandfather was frowning. “Would you look at that? Tire tracks all the way across the lawn. Hrmph. They coulda stayed on the road more.”
My father threw up his hands, exasperated. “Come on, Sandy. I think I owe you a drink.” They walked off to the house together, talking quietly.
My grandmother dusted off the seat of her shorts and picked up her brooms. “Well. I’m heading back inside. I’ve got a cake to put in the oven. No candles for you, though. I don’t want to go through THAT again.” We watched her stalk across the remains of the lawn and disappear into the house.
I rubbed the grime and sweat off my forehead and sighed. My grandfather patted his pockets and produced a pack of cigarettes. As he lit up, he winked at me and said, “well, it’ll come back greener next year. You’ll see.”
For what it was worth, he was right.
~~~
1. Which my grandparents called “the slough”2
2. Pronounced to rhyme with “two”, “few”, “sue”, and “bayou”. All of which I take as proof that English spelling is a truly mongrel beast that makes no sense.
3. Sandy had just come over for a glass of sweet tea and to ask me to babysit for her son later in the week. Really, going out and playing whack-a-flame with my family was above and beyond the call of duty.
4. My great-grandmother was a very feisty woman. She used to wander around in pajamas and big black galoshes carrying these huge garden shears, hunting grasshoppers5 and chopping them in half.6
5. These things got HUGE. At certain times of the year, you couldn't walk across the yard/field without them crunching underfoot. Ugh. Really, she was doing us all a service, but it was a bit... odd, I admit.
6. Of course, because of this, my personal archetype of great-grandmotherliness is an elderly woman with snow white hair tottering around with sharp objects and viciously killing insects. This may explain a lot about me, actually.