By Vicki Brown
When we were first married, we lived in a VERY small town. There was one stop sign, one store that sold snacks and bait, and a volunteer fire station.
When the fire siren would sound, every single one of the 350 people who lived in the vicinity would immediately rush to enjoy the spectacle.
One time, the aged fire truck went down a narrow dirt road to put out a fire. Unfortunately, they made a wrong turn, and in their attempt to turn around, they had to wait for the 100 cars following them to turn around first and get off the road. It was a fiasco.
But my husband wanted to do his part as a pastor in the community, so he joined the volunteer fire department. He went through the training and brought home fireman’s gear.
One summer morning, he got up and decided to burn a worm nest out of a bush that nestled against our front porch. The surrounding foundation of the porch was made of concrete, but the floor was made of wood. The entire house had been constructed in the late 1800s or early 1900s and was the parsonage that belonged to the small church we pastored. It also had flaming gas heaters located on the wooden floors.
That day when he finished with the worm nest, we changed clothes because we had plans to take a friend out to dinner. We took my husband’s car (my brand new Cutlass Supreme was parked under the carport) and I climbed in the back seat so my husband and his friend could talk.
As we passed by our house, I saw something strange. “Honey, I didn’t know we had a light under the porch,” I said.
“We don’t,” said my husband with a puzzle expression.
“Well, there’s a light on.”
He quickly turned the car around and drove back to the house. Peering all around, he found a hole about the size of a quarter directly behind the wormy bush. Evidently, a spark had flown through the hole and set the entire porch on fire.
Yelling out orders, my husband grabbed the water hose and told me to drive to the fire chief’s place, grab a fire extinguisher and come back. Then, before I left, he said, “Don’t ring the fire siren!”
Hysterical, I raced to the chief and shouted for a fire extinguisher. He grabbed one, only to discover that it was empty. I told him what was happening and to bring the fire truck WITH NO SIREN. Seconds later, the siren rang out echoing through the whole town.
Within two minutes, several hundred people were wandering around my yard while the fire chief chopped up my front porch to spray gallons of water under it. The truck also ran over my horseshoe stobs in the front yard.
Still hysterical, and thinking that the whole scene resembled an episode from the Three Stooges, I decided to remove valuables from the house in case it burned to the ground. I dumped everything in my car. That was parked under the carport. The carport made of wood. The carport that was attached to the house. The house that was on fire. Yes…it was stupid. But it gets worse.
An hour later, everyone’s insatiable need for entertainment satisfied and jokes about the volunteer fireman trying to burn his house down exhausted, the fire was finally out and the porch a pile of rubble.
My husband began helping me unload the valuables from my car. He started with the dog. Yes, the first thing I had saved was the dog.
Next, he pulled out our wedding album. I had only been married a year, and for some reason, I considered this a valuable.
Last he hauled out drawers that I had removed from our chest of drawers and vanity. As he stood there looking at them, he said, “Uh, honey, where are my things?”
“What?” I asked.
“You do realize that everything you brought out of the house belongs to you…you didn’t get any of my clothes or valuables,” he said.
Yep, I knew it, but I hoped he hadn’t noticed.
After trying to think of a good answer, I finally blurted out, “Well, anyone who would set fire to their own house doesn’t deserve clothes!”
He must have forgiven me…we are still married.
