July 27, 2005
Forest fire a little too close to home
By
Herald Editor
As one employed in the questionable art of humorist, I'm paid not to take life too serious. However, it's difficult to see the forest of self-deprivation through burning trees.
This past weekend, the news about a multi-acre forest fire in Long Lake Township hit a little too close to home. As in a half-mile from our front door.
Hardly a laughing matter, even for cynical columnist.
Saturday started like any other Pleasant Valley Sunday in our subdivision. Kids squealed around the cul-de-sac on their bikes. A lawn mower failed to start - even after repeated pulls and words that can't be. Our dog barked at a blowing leaf or some other threat to national security.
It was late morning and my father-in-law and I were engaged in serious male bonding - the kind involving 12-2 wire, amps, and a veiled threat of electrocution. Actually, that last part is why I hold the flashlight while Al figures out negative and positive polarity. Although my wife's family loves me, accidentally sparking dear old dad might cut down on the cheer at Christmas.
In between wiring receptacles in the garage, I noticed something odd: neighbors looking up at the sky. It was a surreal moment, like that obligatory scene in 1950s sci-fi movies where people stop and stare at the alien spaceship - right before the cheesy special effects death ray.
Except this wasn't bad cinema, it was angry black smoke.
Within minutes, the plume spoke with a severity miles high. Unfortunately, it was less than that from our front door. I stood like one of those reality TV rubes who takes video of an impending disaster instead of avoiding it. The footage may vary but they all contain a declarative sentence like: "Gosh (Jeb, Luther, Rosco) that (tornado, hurricane, rabid chinchilla) is getting close." This statement is usually followed by bleeps between adverbs and run-for-your-life "Blair Witch Project" camera work.
In the end it wasn't the sight of 50 foot flames that halted my gawking, it was a sound. I had never heard a pine tree be consumed whole. After that I walked into the house and started taking pictures off the wall. Suddenly, life as we knew it was being condensed into a plastic box.
Thankfully, by early afternoon the flames had vanished, the smoke subsided and the sound ceased. We left the minivan packed; a framed photo of my father at age four next to my childhood Winnie the Pooh now in the care of my daughter's hands.
Winnie was one of the few stuffed friends that survived the hundreds of gallons of water pumped into my parents' home in 1979 It was a small fire, an electrical short in a bathroom ceiling vent fan. I think it was a Sunday because I remember all of us in the Buick pulling up to the still smoking house. I recall dad emphatically asking, "Who left the damn curling iron on?"
For the next couple weeks we stayed with relatives and at the lone motel in town while the house was repaired. Strangely, what stands out is that the motel sold Tab in the vending machines - with pull tabs.
Twenty-six years later and Winnie was being boxed up again. Thankfully, the fire threat was short-lived and before long we returned to the mundane; like connecting volts of electricity while wearing flip-flops. Now that we know we still have a standing structure to make home improvements on.
As dusk approaches, we drive past blackened tree trunks next to unscathed pine needles. The fire path stops yards from a house - an easy football toss from the front door to raging inferno. I can't imagine the burning sound so close.
Preliminary signs point to a wayward squirrel as being the fire starter. As a humorist, that sounds like a laughing matter. However, it's hard to see that forest through charred trees too close to home.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com