A rip-roaring fire

GC and The Dog and I went away for a few days, to GC’s family’s cottage up in the Laurentians.

We went cross country skiing for an hour and a half on Thursday. Since this was hilly terrain, there were a lot more ups and downs than I’m used to. Which meant it was a lot more exercise. I’m acutely aware of my butt and groin muscles today. But the downhill parts were a lot of fun and I only fell down once.

When it was all over we went back to the cottage for a sauna and a whirlpool and a glass of wine, and GC started a fire in the fireplace.

We bought one of those packaged logs because they’re easy. You just set the wrapper on fire, and presto, you’ve got a nicely burning log that will burn for three and a half hours.

Which is what it did. Only GC thought the fire was too good. Too flamey. Too big. He began to worry it was going to somehow escape from the cast-iron glass-doored fireplace and burn the house down. He found the fire extinguisher and read the instructions. He went outside and looked at the chimney. He went upstairs and felt the walls. He wondered aloud if there was a fire department out there in the boonies.

Meanwhile, I sat contentedly in the glow of the fire, knitting a sock.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I assured him.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Because if there was something to worry about, I’d be worried about it,” I said.

This might sound like circular reasoning, but it’s true. I’m pretty paranoid when it comes to fire. More so than most people.

When I was six years old, I used to get up before anybody else every morning, and I would go into the living room and bounce on the couch. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. (I have no idea why I did that, but it was my very first addiction.) Anyway, one morning I was bouncing on the couch and I saw my mother’s cigarettes and lighter sitting on the coffee table, and I decided to light some paper. I imagined that the edges would glow prettily, like a lit cigarette.

So I was surprised and horrified when the paper caught fire and the flames grew bigger and I had to drop it. I dropped it on a sweater my mother had been knitting. The flames kept growing and the fire kept spreading, eating everything in its path. I panicked. I was afraid to wake my mother, so I woke my big sister instead. She was seven years old. She woke my mother and my mother put the fire out – I believe she threw a bunch of stuff down the incinerator chute, which was right beside our apartment door.

My mother punished me by burning my thumb with the lighter. It wasn’t really the burn that seared itself into my memory, but the abject terror of anticipation. As she pulled my thumb toward the flame, I imagined my thumb catching on fire just like the piece of paper had, and the fire spreading and consuming me until I was completely engulfed in flames, at which point I would shrivel up, turn black and die. Which of course isn’t what happened at all, but you can see how I might have thought so.

I learned a lot about fire that day; I acquired a healthy respect and a permanent fear of it. If there’s a fire to be worried about, I’m the first to worry about it. (In fact, at one point I did live in the country in a house with a wood stove, and I called the fire department one night because the fire was too big. And another time I called the fire department because I was melting cheese on toast in the oven and the toast caught fire. And another time I called the fire department because I thought I smelled gas, but it was just my dog. Better safe than sorry, I say.)

Anyway, the fire went out after three and a half hours, and GC breathed a sigh of relief and put the fire extinguisher away. It might be awhile before he builds another one.