We lived in a 1200 square foot ranch located in a working class neighborhood of a town that was historically founded on the principles of gerrymandering. In 1980 when I was in high school our town went bankrupt due to a combination of budgetary mismanagement and grassroots efforts to resist increases in property taxes. The school board had to make some tough decisions to save money so they offered to cut buses or the football team. The townsfolk rallied to save the football team. After the cheese wagons were nixed in favor of preserving the jock's glory days, I walked to school carrying my 20 year old physics book which predicted that “someday men would walk on the moon.”
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| Red Fire Alarm Box |
Years earlier when I was in middle school, two fires occurred in my childhood house, both in the kitchen. Residential smoke alarms were not required by code back then, and we didn’t even own a fire extinguisher. No matter. There was a red fire alarm box affixed to the telephone pole at the head of our driveway. As kids we were told never to touch that box unless, of course, something was on fire.
Once as I rode past the red box on my bike, I envisioned a meteor streaking across the sky then crashing into our neighbor's house. I imagined that I darted for the alarm, pulled down the white cover, then yanked on the elusive lever, summoning the emergency calvary. I was heralded as a hero for my quick thinking which saved my neighbor’s lives. Unfortunately, their house was a total loss.
“Bobby! Dinner,” my mother hollered from the side door that opened to the kitchen.
My mother always called everyone to the table before the meal was ready. She knew we all had to wait our turn to wash hands in the one bathroom of our house. She wanted us clean, relatively, and seated when she was ready to serve. So I wasn’t surprised that as I passed through the kitchen, the large pot of oil on the stove was just coming to a boil.
My oldest sister, the firstborn, was taking her sweet time in the loo as I queued up behind my sister, Jeannine. Jeannine is the middle child while I am the youngest. As the alpha vacated, she pushed past both of us with indifference, broken only momentarily to convey disgust. Jeannine went in next.
“Come on Bobby! I’m just washing my hands,” she called out.
Confident I wasn’t going to see my sister involved in bodily functions on the throne, I entered the bathroom.
“Mom’s making mushy chicken,” Jeannine announced as we washed.
My mother liked to fry chicken except she never left the chicken in the oil long enough to crisp up. The egg and bread formed a soft coating which although mildly tasty probably still contained live bacteria. Jeannine darted from the bathroom. As I entered the kitchen, something was wrong. My oldest sister was seated at the table, tending to her nails with an emery board. My mother was on the phone, her hand to her mouth as she looked out the kitchen window. My father, always last to sit, was in the living room reading the newspaper. Jeannine had stopped in her tracks and was staring at the pot on the stove.
“What’s she doing?” I thought, “Why’s she not sitting at the table?”
I watched Jeanine’s hand rise like the moon. She was pointing at the pot of boiling oil. As the frothy liquid popped and sputtered over the lip, it ignited into a spectacular orange flame. My mother dropped the phone as she screamed for my father. My dad burst into the kitchen still clutching his newspaper. In a move best described as superhuman, my father jettisoned the paper, reached through the flames and spun the knob on the stove. The thick orange glow of the metal burner faded, but this did little to dissuade the grease fire now raging in the pot. Someone brushed past me. It was the alpha receding to her room. As my family was locked in a life and death struggle to save our home, the firstborn's first thought was to return to the safety of her room as if the David Cassidy posters on the wall would save her.
While my father stepped backwards trying to think of his next best move, my mother filled a glass of water from the sink. She ventured to the cauldron on the stove with the glass held aloft. When she dumped the water into the flames, a fireball arose from the pot and spread out over the ceiling. Jeannine and I mentally came to the same conclusion,
“Not my schoolbag!”
The smoldering remains of my education hit the floor with a thud. My dad snatched up the braided area rug which he piled onto the stovetop, adjusting it each time a flame snuck out from underneath. I called to Jeannine who was poised in front of the fire alarm,
“Bobby! Dinner,” my mother hollered from the side door that opened to the kitchen.
My mother always called everyone to the table before the meal was ready. She knew we all had to wait our turn to wash hands in the one bathroom of our house. She wanted us clean, relatively, and seated when she was ready to serve. So I wasn’t surprised that as I passed through the kitchen, the large pot of oil on the stove was just coming to a boil.
My oldest sister, the firstborn, was taking her sweet time in the loo as I queued up behind my sister, Jeannine. Jeannine is the middle child while I am the youngest. As the alpha vacated, she pushed past both of us with indifference, broken only momentarily to convey disgust. Jeannine went in next.
“Come on Bobby! I’m just washing my hands,” she called out.
Confident I wasn’t going to see my sister involved in bodily functions on the throne, I entered the bathroom.
“Mom’s making mushy chicken,” Jeannine announced as we washed.
My mother liked to fry chicken except she never left the chicken in the oil long enough to crisp up. The egg and bread formed a soft coating which although mildly tasty probably still contained live bacteria. Jeannine darted from the bathroom. As I entered the kitchen, something was wrong. My oldest sister was seated at the table, tending to her nails with an emery board. My mother was on the phone, her hand to her mouth as she looked out the kitchen window. My father, always last to sit, was in the living room reading the newspaper. Jeannine had stopped in her tracks and was staring at the pot on the stove.
“What’s she doing?” I thought, “Why’s she not sitting at the table?”
I watched Jeanine’s hand rise like the moon. She was pointing at the pot of boiling oil. As the frothy liquid popped and sputtered over the lip, it ignited into a spectacular orange flame. My mother dropped the phone as she screamed for my father. My dad burst into the kitchen still clutching his newspaper. In a move best described as superhuman, my father jettisoned the paper, reached through the flames and spun the knob on the stove. The thick orange glow of the metal burner faded, but this did little to dissuade the grease fire now raging in the pot. Someone brushed past me. It was the alpha receding to her room. As my family was locked in a life and death struggle to save our home, the firstborn's first thought was to return to the safety of her room as if the David Cassidy posters on the wall would save her.
While my father stepped backwards trying to think of his next best move, my mother filled a glass of water from the sink. She ventured to the cauldron on the stove with the glass held aloft. When she dumped the water into the flames, a fireball arose from the pot and spread out over the ceiling. Jeannine and I mentally came to the same conclusion,
"ABANDON SHIP! Every man for himself!"
She bolted for the door with me not too far behind. As I traversed the kitchen, a second fireball belched from the pot. My parents recoiled as I ducked my head. When I reached the threshold, I yelled to Jeannine who had made it to the driveway,
“Pull the fire alarm!”
“No don’t!” my mother shot back.
I turned to my mother in disbelief. The inside of our house looked like the launch pad for a Saturn V rocket at T plus 2 seconds, and she didn’t want to alert emergency services? Best I could come up with in the middle of the chaos was that she probably didn't want the firemen to track mud in her house. My father grabbed the closest thing in reach, my vinyl schoolbag. He beat back the flames which now covered the entire top of the stove. Knowing that my books, pencils and papers were now in peril, I yelled,
“Pull the fire alarm!”
“No don’t!” my mother shot back.
I turned to my mother in disbelief. The inside of our house looked like the launch pad for a Saturn V rocket at T plus 2 seconds, and she didn’t want to alert emergency services? Best I could come up with in the middle of the chaos was that she probably didn't want the firemen to track mud in her house. My father grabbed the closest thing in reach, my vinyl schoolbag. He beat back the flames which now covered the entire top of the stove. Knowing that my books, pencils and papers were now in peril, I yelled,
“Not my schoolbag!”
The smoldering remains of my education hit the floor with a thud. My dad snatched up the braided area rug which he piled onto the stovetop, adjusting it each time a flame snuck out from underneath. I called to Jeannine who was poised in front of the fire alarm,
“It’s out!”
My father periodically lifted the rug to check on the status of the rest of our lives in that house. Any hint of orange, and he would slam the rug back down. Once he was sure the crisis was over, he hauled my mother’s smoldering mess of a rug outside to the lawn where he hosed it down. As the commotion subsided, I recall hearing the muffled lyrics of a Partridge Family song emanating from my sister's room,
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of
a love there is no cure for.
I think I love you.
I'll tell you what I was afraid of. Fried food! The second kitchen fire took place a year later. It wasn’t as ominous of an event as The Great Grease Fire of 1974, but since we never had a family debriefing after the first fire, we were equally unprepared for the second. It was the day after a holiday party. My mother was cleaning up the debris from the previous day's cheer and merriment, which included a large, yellow Tupperware bowl filled to the brim with Cheez doodles. (I have no idea why "doodles" is not capitalized). The large bowl full of orange baked puffs that sort of resemble insect larvae kept getting in my mother's way. Now when I say that this was a large bowl, I mean it was much more than merely big. It was a Fix N Mix Bowl #274 which according to the internet can hold 26 cups of your favorite shit. She kept moving it here and there as she cleaned so eventually she came up with the master class idea to stow the plastic container and all 26 cups of Cheez doodles in, wait for it...
My father periodically lifted the rug to check on the status of the rest of our lives in that house. Any hint of orange, and he would slam the rug back down. Once he was sure the crisis was over, he hauled my mother’s smoldering mess of a rug outside to the lawn where he hosed it down. As the commotion subsided, I recall hearing the muffled lyrics of a Partridge Family song emanating from my sister's room,
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of
a love there is no cure for.
I think I love you.
the oven.
Hours later when my mother was preparing to reheat leftovers for dinner, she put the oven on "preheat." Momentarily, a foul oder permeated our tiny home. My father, the house whisperer, noted it first from the living room,
"What's that smell?" he asked aloud.
My dad sniffed in different directions then took two steps then sniffed again. He olfactorily dead reckoned right into the kitchen where he met me trying to retrieve a box of crackers from a high cabinet.
"Something stinks," I announced.
My mother's muffled voice emanated from the bathroom.
"The Cheez doodles!"
"Get your mother the Cheez doodles," my father ordered.
I looked about.
"Where are they?"
My father scanned the kitchen.
"They're in the goddamn stove!" my mother said frantically.
My father and I looked at each other puzzled.
"They're not in the stove," my dad exclaimed with a chuckle.
"You don't cook Cheese doodles," I offered.
"They must be around here someplace."
The door to the bathroom cracked open.
"They’re in the oven!" my encumbered mother screamed through the opening.
My father and I both looked to each other then to the oven. Through the dark, charred flin caked on the glass window in the oven door, I could just make out a faint yellow glow. My father reached for the handle. As he was getting ready to yank it open, he paused then released the handle. He pointed in succession to each of the many knobs and levers on the console above the burners, looking for the one that was set to "Go For the Moon." As my dad reacquired the handle, I stepped back. My father cautiously cracked open the door. A foul vapor poured out from the oven but no flames. Yellow goo was dripping from the grate and pooling at the bottom of the oven. My dad released the door.
"Not too bad," he ascertained.
Before he finished his assessment, the yellow glowing flicker, fanned by a backdraft, ignited. My father saw it right off.
"Oh shit!" my dad shouted.
He reached for the rug I was standing on and pulled it into the air. I fell backwards onto my fundament. Briefly, I thought that this just might be the chance I was waiting for. Maybe, just maybe, I might get to pull the fire alarm. My father swung open the door then proceeded to beat the flaming pile of Cheez doodles with the rug which sent fiery bits of doodle in every direction. They landed on the floor. Some even made it up to the counter. While my father's go-to method of fire suppression did, yet again, suppress the flames, embers were drifted about the kitchen. Although I wasn't going to have any snacks in my lunch this week, at least we weren't going to lose the family home.
Unbeknownst to my dad and I, my mother had exited the john. After seeing the mess my father was making, she armed her favorite cleaning implement, the canister vacuum cleaner. My father hated the sound of that thing, partly because it was loud and partly because my mother loved it so that when she vacuumed it was like a trip on the S.S. Minnow, a three hour tour. He retreated to his chair in the living room and resumed the word jumble in the newspaper as I picked myself up off the floor. Hours passed as my mother vacuumed with delight. She was on her hands and knees working on freeing up the burnt yellow, solidified plastic blob in the oven with a butter knife when I crossed through the kitchen. My mother momentarily stopped scraping.
"Look at the mess your father made!" she bellowed.
I was near the canister which, the best I could tell, was glowing.
"You better change the bag in that thing," I offered, believing that the motor was overheating after three hours of sucking up Cheez doodles.
My mother resumed scraping. I went into the living room to continue my self-study of The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan. Actually, I was going to try to tune in the UHF selector on the TV to Channel 56 to watch Speed Racer. After a few minutes of fiddling, I got it.
Go Speed Racer go!
I was just wondering how Trixie learned to fly a helicopter when my dad lowered his newspaper.
"What's that?" he asked while looking up in a seemingly random direction.
"What?"
As my dad rose, he dropped his paper onto his chair. He made his way down the short hallway to the kitchen. I looked through the passageway to see him staring at my mother as she scraped the stove. Returning to my cartoon, I thought,
"Where did she even get a helicopter?"
Picking up the vacuum wand, my father sniffed the end. Recoiling, my dad was satisfied that he had found the source of the miasma. As he inspected the vacuum cleaner, I confidently explained,
"I told her to change the bag. The motor is overheating."
My father looked down the hallway as I rattled off my expert advice. As his attention shifted to the handle, he adjusted his grip while demonstrating excellent trigger discipline. With a flick of his thumb, the vacuum sprang to life. I looked towards the noise, unsure why my father was powering up a machine he loathed so completely. As I focussed on the canister, he shut it off. I thought I saw for just a moment a flame coming out of the exhaust port. To this day, I recall that it was blue. I half expected the canister to start rolling across the floor then after reaching take off speed, lift skyward. My father looked to the canister then tried the trigger once more.
"What the heck!" he shouted as he abruptly switched off the machine.
He quickly rolled the vacuum to the door then tossed it down the stairs. As it bounced off the concrete steps, the canister broke open revealing a core of smoldering dust, dander and doodles that had burned through the bag. Once it breeched the filter, the compressed air driven by the motor created a low thrust jet engine that fried the inside of the canister.
The opportunity to activate the red fire alarm box at the end of the driveway never presented itself to me again even though we were hardly an accident free family. Back in those days you went to the hospital if you couldn't stop bleeding from an artery. You passed on an emergency room visit for a concussion even if you blacked out. My family depended on a general practitioner who gave you a bottle of orange medicine for every malady with instructions to "finish the bottle." It didn’t work and stained your teeth, but it didn’t kill you either so down the hatch!
After I was on my own on a bright Sunday morning my father choked hard on some steak grizzle. Having worked so memorably well with the grease fire, my mother rolled out her glass of water trick. As my asphyxiating father drank the warm water, the steak lodged even deeper. Eventually, he had to choose either entering a white tunnel to the afterlife or performing the Heimlich maneuver on himself. When they told me the story, I asked my mother if she called 9-1-1. She hadn't.
My parents generation never felt that their emergency rose to a level which required intervention by trained professionals. They treated the fires which could've easily claimed our home or one or more of us as an embarrassment. I know this because my mother put us kids under an explicit gag order not to disclose the fires to our friends, especially the Cheez doodle Syndrome of 1975. She regarded that incident as her fault even though the first time around she poured a glass of water in a pot of boiling oil.
As an adult I sat them down and explained that emergency personnel want you to call them, but it never sunk in. When a ladder my father was on slipped down the house, and he broke his nose on a rung, my mother called a neighbor who rushed over to find my father holding a towel to his face as he bled profusely. The neighbor wisely called emergency services against my father's wishes. When the paramedics arrived he refused to go with them because as he put it,
"I have to take my wife to her hair appointment this afternoon."
He didn't tell me about his accident until I saw him a week later. I was shocked to see my dad so banged up. He said,
"I didn't mess up anything I need. I just broke my face."
Later when we talked, he wondered aloud what the paramedics must have thought of him. He asked,
"You think they thought I was nuts?"
After a long pause, I answered,
"Yes, definitely."
He confided in me that the whole experience alleviated his fear of hospitals. He recalled all the jokes he played on the staff during his brief visit including asking them if he would be able to play the tuba after they fix his nose. They reassured him that he would to which he said,
"Oh good! I never could before."
When I think of how as kids we were unrestrained in car seats for all those years, crossed active train bridges that spanned raging rivers, avoided the groovy drugged out hippies of the 1970's, roamed forests and rivers alone all day long, ventured at night into deep trenches being dug in the streets for sewer pipes, passed on going to the hospital for a concussion and survived our homes catching fire, I wonder if any of it built character or took some away. This is when writers usually proclaim that if they could do it all over again, they wouldn't change a thing. I, for one, would've taken a pass on The Great Grease Fire of 1974.
It still gives me nightmares to this day.
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