One evening a few years ago, it was unusually cold here in South Texas. I thought how nice a roaring fire would be for my husband when he came home from work.
I quickly grabbed a hackberry log from our back patio. Our daughter, Katherine, then 17, looked up from her homework and asked:
“Mom, do you think it’s safe to use a wet log?”
I said breezily: “It’s fine.” The look she gave me told me she wasn’t sure, but she shrugged and returned to her homework.
I tossed it atop a fire starter log, lit a match, and stood back to admire my work. Soon, smoke started to drift toward the ceiling.
“Mom?”
“It’s okay,” I said with a cough. “It probably just has to smoke a little a first.”
Our dog jumped up from her blanket and high-tailed it upstairs.
“Mom, now there’s smoke in the dining room!”
That’s when the smoke detectors sounded.
I snatched up the dog blanket, doused it under the faucet, and dripped water all over the kitchen. I tossed it on the fire. More smoke.
“Quick, Katherine, go next door and get help!” She took off running, hit the spilled water, and did the splits in the kitchen.
“Are you all right?” I shouted above the shrill alarms, my hands covering my ears. She nodded and bolted out the door.
Katherine ran to our nearest neighbors’ house, but the owner wasn’t home.
I pounded on another neighbor’s door. When he opened the door, I grabbed him by the forearm, pulled him outside, and yelled like a cave woman: “You. Come. Now!”
We threw open all the windows and somehow he managed to turn off the smoke alarms.
Once the alarms stopped and my neighbor opened the flue, we looked at the blackened walls and ceilings.
We turned when my husband came in the front door. To his credit, he remained calm: “Is everyone okay?”
“Oh no!” I raced to the kitchen, avoided the water on the floor, pulled open the oven door, and gazed at our burned supper.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll order pizza.”