My last year of college, I lived off campus in the student slum area of older homes remodeled for student rentals. I happened to find a large bedroom with a walk-in closet late in the summer. Two other students had the other two bedrooms. We shared a large bathroom with a clawfoot tub. There was a small room over the stairway. Too small for a bed, it was perfect for a T.V. room. We furnished it with several bean bag chairs.
A young man in his thirties was the owner, living in the downstairs. He was on call for maintenance when needed. He had separated the down stairs for his living quarters. The kitchen was used by all four of us. There was a basement with a washer but no dryer.
On weekends, I had the house to myself. The other women worked or visited their boyfriends.
One weekend we were all at the house. The weather was below freezing with snow flurries. I awoke on Saturday to discover the heat was out. Dialing our landlord at work, he suggested we go into his side of the house to use the fireplace until he came home. Having grown up with a fireplace, watching my father build fires, I was confident I could make a fire and keep it stoked.
Bringing in small kindling, I packed old newspapers around and between the small branches. Adding a log, it was ready to light.
“Wait! Did you check the flue to see if was opened?” I hadn’t.
Fiddling with the flue, I tested the draw of the firebox.
We took comfortable chairs and sat waiting for the heat. Unfortunately, the wind was blowing cold and strong right across the top of the chimney. One hard gust slammed the flue shut. Smoke billowed into the living room, causing us to cough and run outside. The students in the house next door called the fire department to put out the flames.
They took a fire extinguisher to douse the fire. Then one fireman wearing asbestos gloves removed the smoldering log. Now the house smelled of smoke. The little heat was gone with the departure of the firemen.
My two housemates packed their bags and went to stay with their boyfriends. My boyfriend lived over 500 miles away in the Upper Peninsula.
I filled the bathtub with hot water and took a long soak. When done, I made a pot of tea and waited for our landlord to finish work.
He didn’t say a word. Just lit the furnace and cleaned the soot from his rooms. He had told us to make a fire rather than come home from work early.
After that experience, I didn’t boast I knew how to build a fire.
Building a fire
Gather kindling in a pile.
Pack twists of newspaper in the cracks.
Remember to open the flue.
Wait for the fire to burn.
Flue slammed shut.
Smoke billows into the room.
Fire truck, fire men alight.
One carries a smoldering log outside.
I thought I knew how to build a fire.
carolaspot @aol.com May 20th 2024
traveling up and down the blind highway 