We Didn't Start the Fire

The Infamous Brushpile Fire of 1992.
Our well-meaning father starts up the ole brushpile with a rock, a rag and some diesel fuel. We admire the flames for a bit, then go in for supper. Darkness falls upon us. We look out the window to see flames leaping as high as the tree tops. Dad races out to the scene with pails of water and blankets. He is beating at the flames with the help of our neighbour, Earl. The fire is racing through the grass and consuming spruce trees in a single burst of flame. Our neighbour, Diane, is out on her lawn with a piddly garden hose attempting to protect her mobile home. The fire trucks come. I am watching all of this from Dad's truck. I'm about 11. The fire cheif, Harry, comes over and says "Ma'am, your going to need to move your truck". I'm 11. What the hell! Mom calls to see if we are going to 4-H. Morgan informs her that we are battling a forest fire. Nonchalantly, of course.

The Semi-Disapointing Brushpile Fire of 2007.
A pile of old rotten shit has been accumulating for the last 15 years. It is an eyesore...a wart on the face of the farm. Mom takes Will to music class and I manage to pressure well-meaning Dad into lighting her up. Grandpa Bill comes over, giddy with anticipation of what may be the next big Murray gongshow. Dad pours at least 30 gallons of diesel fuel at random spots on the pile. He then uses a half a box of matches to ignite the pile. The banter between the two Murray men about the best way to light the fire is GOLD. "Jeeeeezus Keeeeeer-iSTE Billy, what are you thinking?" The pile goes up in flames. We sit in lawnchairs and observe, our own feeble garden hose running non-stop to prevent our trailer from going up in flames. Apparently this is boring to the Murray men so they attach two 20' lenghts of pipe to the tractor bucket and proceed to poke, scoop, bulldozed and stir the fire up.

Grandpa continues to heckle and beller orders at Dad about "Jeeeeeesuz KEEEEEEE-RISTE!!! Don't get in that deep sod there! You're gonna get stuck and sink up to the frame and then we'll have to watch your tractor burn!!!!!" It is entertaining as Dad is 300 yards away inside the tractor, immune to the bellers from Gramps. The fire crackles for a few hours and sizzles down to a smoldering pile of ash by evening. Grandpa is disapointed in the lack of action so he barks orders that I bring the rake (none to be found, a hoe will do) and a box of matches. He begins lighting random patches of dried grass on fire, rakes it around a bit. Repeat ad naseum. He creates a patchy patchwork of burned grass with no apparent purpose to it. He bellers at me to start doing the same. Fear and respect seem to guide my shaking hand as I too begin the mindless lighting and scrounging-around-of-flaming grass. Mom arrives at the scene and flips out at the sight of large black bald patches of burn. She is sure that the random patches are due to our negligence and a runaway fire. Dad receives a blast o'shit from her now. Happy Birthday to my Dad!!

The brushpile is nearly gone so we start looking for other items to toss into it. Grandpa starts forking in hay that I have sitting in a pile by the fence for the minis. Er, thanks. We start clearing deadfall out of Maude's pen. Dad has the bucket of the tractor over the fence and we toss old rotten branches and trees into it until it becomes so heavy that it actually puts so much weight on the fence that the rail snaps. Great, broken fence. We yank the broken fence apart and haul it the fire. Hmmm, what else can we burn? We start assessing some of the older trees and try to cut them down with the chainsaw. The taller trees won't fall over "timber" so there are now several precariously dangerous cow-death-traps dangling in the trees. Dearly Beloved opts to just push the smaller dead ones over like a bear.

During these festivities the goats somehow escape. Dad says"Leave 'em. They are fine". As he says this they are standing sedately by the billy goat pen. The moment we turn our backs they stampede and run as hard as they can across the field, across Mom and Dad's yard, past the river and way out into the Larsen's field to eat willows. Dad gets a bright pink bucket of oats to entice them back. They surround him and start head butting delicate areas. We finally get the goats back in. The pigs our roaming around loose now. Screw em! We decide to move the lil red barn into the minis and out of Maude's pen. This results in Marla, the calf, escaping and running wild. The minis then escape, and the bastard mini pony Everett and his mini donkey friends are racing around in the smoke of the brushpile, flipping us the bird. We cant catch them so Dad fires up the quad and roars around in the mud, hollering and chasing down the rebel midget livestock. Everyone is finally back in their pens and its time for supper.

Lil Peanut is getting tired and cranky and bellers through the meal. He won't cheer up to Grandma's offers of "Cake??" (vigourous head shake) Whipped cream? (more head shaking) "Strawberries? (shake-shake-shake). Finally I say threateningly "Do you want to go home to bed??" heh heh heh I have his number. This little toddler won't get my goat today! No-sir-eeeeeee! I have the upper hand!! If in doubt, threaten his least favourite thing. To my surprise/shock/chagrin he enthusiatically nods and says "KAY!" and heads for the door and his coat. Hmmmm, go figure. So poor Oomp had a real doozy of a day and a pretty short lil bday party.