Smoking the Neighbors Out

We’ve lived here three years, and we met one of our next door neighbors for the first time last week. It’s great that we finally know each others’ names, but it’s kind of disappointing that we almost burned down their house to get acquainted.

I have previously written about our experiences adjusting to country living, especially the necessity of having to burn things. By now we should have become old pros, having successfully completed several burns of dead brush over the years. We can easily knock out a large burn pile in 1 to 2 hours.

The previous owners of our property planted a lot of trees and shrubs, which is usually aesthetically pleasing in the spring and summer. But as a result of several years of drought, a lot of trees, shrubs, and vines have died. The dead stuff is not so appealing. We’ve spent the last six months pulling up dead trees and bushes, creating not one but two massive burn piles.

The second burn pile was in our front yard and had grown to a good 7 feet high by 20 feet in diameter. With the hot, dry season just around the corner and knowing a new burn ban was imminent, we decided it was time to get ‘er done. I followed protocol and called the sheriff’s office to let them know we’d be burning that afternoon. Fine, they said.

We proceeded in our usual manner, with me watering the ground around the pile and St. Pauli Girl sprinkling on some diesel fuel and lighting the pile. I stood to the side by our neighbor’s fence with the hose, watering more ground just as a precaution.

Let me point out here and now that dead wood, brush, and leaves burn really fast. I mean really, really fast.
As usual the flames quickly roared through the burn pile, spouting up a good 12 to 15 feet in the air. I started to back away as the familiar intense heat came at me. Before I knew it, I was protecting myself behind a tree, well away from the huge fire. Although it was a particularly hot day, everything was going as expected.

Then the wind kicked up, blowing the flames north. At that point St. Pauli Girl made the crucial decision to pick up the hose and move it away from the fire. She later said she was afraid it might melt. Suddenly, a huge gust of wind came, pushing the flames even higher and further away from the pile. I heard a cracking, then a small explosion sound. I looked up into the big oak tree I was standing behind that was a good 30 feet north of the burn pile and watched in horror as clusters of leaves burst into flames.

"The tree’s on fire," I yelled to St. Pauli Girl, pointing.

She looked up and immediately turned the hose on it. The wind was persistent, and the flames showed no sign of dying anytime soon. More branches burst into flames.

"Go call 911!" St. Pauli Girl yelled, jerking at the hose to get closer to the tree.

I ran back to the house to retrieve my phone. I couldn’t believe we were about to torch our yard and maybe even the whole neighborhood. But once I grabbed the phone, I hesitated. Then I made a tactical decision: I would to wait just a few seconds to see if the burning tree had gotten worse. I figured if I called too soon, the fire department might show up after we had everything under control, only to yell at us. Whereas if the fire had spread out of control, the tree and most of our yard would already be in the ashes of history anyway, regardless if I called right then or waited 30 seconds.

I ran back to the fire to see that the main fire had indeed calmed down as a result of the dying wind, and the tree was now only charred and dripping. St. Pauli Girl continued to spray water into the branches. The main burn pile had returned to its usual normal "boring" status.

A few minutes later, our neighbor whom we’d never met wandered out toward us. "Almost got us," she said.
I looked up at her tree which hadn’t been touched. I wanted to say we had it under control but I just shrugged instead.

"I could feel the heat all the way on my back porch," she continued. (Her back porch is probably a hundred yards away.)

We chatted with her for several minutes while keeping a careful eye on the fire. We had already decided to not add any more brush to it, and to save burning pile #2 for another day.

After she left, I asked St. Pauli Girl, "Do you think she really felt the heat back there?"

"No. I think she heard me yell at you to call 911."

So other than our own tree, there was no collateral damage, and we were saved the humiliation of dealing with lectures from the fire department and sheriff’s office. But we’ll probably not volunteer at the annual homeowner’s association cookout this year.

Country Living

The nice thing about the long, cold, wet winter is the limited availability of yardwork. Since we both work out of the house, we sit cooped up inside all day leading to scintillating lunchtime conversation:

“Anything in the news today?” St. Pauli Girl will ask.
“Nope. Anything new on Facebook?”
“Nope.”

Then we stare at each other until dinner when we repeat the conversation. Every ten days or so, St. Pauli Girl will ask:

“I’m going to town, do you need anything?”
“I reckon not.”

And that has been our country living this winter. The trees did not shed their leaves here until December. Hence, while most people are thinking about planting gardens in March, we are raking leaves.

There is a long list of things I never thought I would do in my life: be an opera singer, build a car from scratch with my partner Sonny, get waterboarded, etc. Having a burn pile is somewhere in the top 100. A burn pile is where you put things that you used to throw in the dumpster in the alley behind your house. When the pile gets really big, you burn it.

Actually, it’s not even that good, because you can only burn things like leaves, tree limbs, and other natural items. No real trash. And so what do you do with your old Camaro, Trans Am, or pick-up camper top? You leave it parked in the yard where archaeologists will discover it 10,000 years from now. You might think it’s fun to laugh at country folk who leave old vehicles, appliances, tires and chainsaws scattered about the yard. But seriously-- what do you do with all that stuff when you can’t throw it away or burn it? You dump it as far away from the house as possible, out of sight. Or pay hundreds—thousands--of dollars to have it hauled off.

Prior to last week, we had only burned the burn pile once in a year. The area had been in a drought, under a burn ban for two years. One day, a nice heavy spring storm rolled through. Someone we worked with commented , “Just watch, tomorrow the whole county will go up in smoke.” And it did. You learn to take advantage of the limited time between burn bans.

(Except after we started our fire, we found out the burn ban had just been put back into effect. Country living takes getting used to.)

So over the past few weeks, we’ve groomed the yard and created a burn pile that would make any bonfire-loving Aggie proud. St. Pauli Girl decided to light it last Saturday. After spreading diesel fuel over the pile, a single match sent a raging ball of fire skyward. Armed with a garden hose, St. Pauli Girl watched nervously. A sudden gust of wind pushed smoke and flames toward the neighbors which would have been alright except for the dead oak tree standing between us and them. And I mean really dead, with long, very dry limbs hanging almost down to the ground. The flames nipped at the dry branches, singeing some of them. But in a matter of minutes, the flames died down and our burn became quite manageable again.

Of course I heard about this after the fact. I was busy doing much more important things like blogging or something. St. Pauli Girl said she was about to come and get me, but she was afraid to leave the inferno unattended.

We spent the rest of the day feeding the fire. To help with future burns, I pulled down all of the overhanging dead tree limbs and threw them into the fire. At the end of the day, we sat and watched the last remnants burn down. As the sun set, Mr. Roo (our rooster) led the four other chickens back into the pen. Two of the chickens were still upset because they had built a nest in the burn pile. (St. Pauli Girl reported quite a symphony of squawking when she pulled them out just before the burn.)

We enjoyed the campfire smell and debated roasting hot dogs over the coals. The chickens worked their way around the yard, scratching and pecking for bugs. I marveled at this country life as if I were Mr. Douglas from “Green Acres.” I noticed Mr. Roo getting a little rambunctious as he herded the hens this way and that. Then he pounced on the brown hen, bit her neck and well, had his way with her. It lasted maybe three seconds (ladies insert your own joke here).

Ah, the ways of nature, the circle of life! (Fireside, we eventually listed every “Lion King” song we could think of.)

Then suddenly, Mr. Roo pounced on another hen and had another three second romp.

“Mr. Roo is feeling frisky,” St. Pauli Girl said.

“Well, it is Saturday night.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Roo took his third partner of the evening. Three in ten minutes! (Gentlemen insert your own joke here.) This was bordering on chicken porn; I was waiting for the inevitable hen-on-hen scene. But as darkness fell, the hens and their man wandered into the coop where I’m sure Mr. Roo had a very good night’s sleep.

So these are the things you learn living in the country: chickens actually have sex, you should burn the burn pile when you can, cut down dead tree branches hovering near the burn pile, and roosters actually have a lot of sex. Especially on Saturday night.