Helping Daddy

It was a sunny afternoon in May, and my dad and I were gathering the remains of winter – fine, pale grass, bits of twigs, and withered papery leaves that would be burned, without ceremony, in our small backyard. I was five years old and happy to be working alongside my dad who took pride in keeping our property neat and tidy.

It seemed safe to burn such a small amount of debris, so my dad lit a match and let it fall to the ground. Together, we watched closely as the fire meandered through the grass and leaves. Maybe the robins were watching too, as their precious nest building materials were in peril.

I eagerly gathered more leaves to add to the flickering orange pile. It was exciting to see the edges of the leaves curl and crinkle before disappearing entirely. A crow that was perched in our maple tree began to caw repeatedly. Perhaps he was mocking us or sending a warning signal to alert us of the danger that was imminent.

My dad and I had no way of knowing that during the winter some oil had leaked onto the ground from the rusty barrel that sat on top of a narrow storage shed next to our house. Suddenly, the fire grew in size and quickly traveled to the shed. My dad leapt into action. He pushed the oil drum off the shed, and away from the flames that would soon reach the back wall of the house.

I ran inside to get some water to throw on the fire, and found that my mom was bathing my three month-old sister in a little pink bathtub on the kitchen table. She gently lifted her out of the bubbles and wrapped her in a cozy towel. Their tranquil moment was broken by my urgent request. “Mommy, I need some water for the fire,” I said.

My mom was oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. “Okay, honey,” she said as she handed me a small ice cream container filled with water. I briefly imagined myself courageously dousing the fire, and was headed for the door when my dad rushed into the house, shouting, “Call the fire department! The house is on fire!” Then he flew out the door with the plastic bathtub of soapy water in hand. I can only guess that the fire hissed and crackled as my dad threw the little tub into the flames that quickly devoured it like soft pink marshmallows.

My mom took me, and my sister to the safety of our neighbor’s house, across the street, where we all stood together like innocent bystanders, watching and hoping for a happy ending. The firefighters quickly extinguished the fire, and then proceeded to lecture my dad about “Burning on Sunday” and “Burning without a permit.” My dad expressed his gratitude to the firemen (who decided not to press charges), and then he took my mom out for a relaxing dinner because it was, after all, Mother’s Day.