My husband is a brilliant fellow who speaks several languages, has multiple college degrees, has written three books and is totally devoid of common sense. It's not really his fault that he is lacking in common knowledge, because he comes from the sort of French bourgeois family that had a maid, nanny and a cook; whose supervision too so much time out of the parental day; it left preciious little time for his parents to give common sense lessons to their children.
This means that my poor husband did not have the benefit of learning how to camp, make fires, use knives, fish, water safety or any of the other things we girl and boy scouts take for granted. He was once horrified at the presentation of S'mores on a stick until he tasted one and now he is the gran French afficiando de camp fire cuisine which makes him kind of crazy when there is a fire around.
In the beginning I often caught myslef chiding that we could not burn the milk carton in the fireplace because it would melt and smoke up the house. Several charred milk cartons later I was saying we cannot burn magazines in the fireplace because they make a dark dense smoke......get my drift? The year we owned our first home; we went through ten smoke alarms from December to March. Every day was another exciting experiment in pyrotechnology at our house and another ruined relentless smoke alarm ripped from its perch on the ceiling. Needless to say all this smoke left our freshly painted yellow walls looking like the inside of a Cro-Magnon cave sans cleverly spray painted figures of bison and uber women.
Quickly, my husband began to resent my motherly suggestions on how to handle fire with safety and caution. I became the scourge of fire making and we finally had to block off the chimney and put an end to fires inside the home or else divorce or worse.
Putting an end to fires inside the home did not seem to detach dear hubby from turning over a new leaf in the back yard: and burning all the new leaves he turned over as he also discovered burning the trash was a good thing; even though he was duly informed by me there was a city ordinance against outdoor burning.
OUr new deck was the unfortunate recipient of the burn award when my husband threw a lit cigar into a plastic trash can full of papers and sat it out on the deck as he went to take a shower. Several minutes later a clean hubby emerged from the shower to see dark black smoke streaming through the windows of the TV room that faced the deck. Dear reader, if you have correctly assumed that cigar set fire to the papers in the trash can and the plastic trash can set fire to the deck you have got an A plus in deductions. For many months we had to place a large potted tree over the spot where the circular trash can had branded a dark charred hole in the deck.
The nadir of my husband's pyrotechnic endeavors came shortly after we purchased a wonderful cedarwood beach house on Bolivar Peninsula. After the great hurricane flood of 1900, the beach houses in this area are all built on wooden pylons at least one story in the air. We had a large wooden staircase in the front of our home but no other entrance or exit existed for the house, the living area was on the second storey and the master suite was on the third storey. We truly felt we were owned a piece of paradise with waving palms trees, flowering shrubs and lots of Gulf views.
To my husband's great chagrin even the wilds of Bolivar also had an outdoor burning ordinance, according to me but he decided to ignore my warning and set his own bonfire whist I was in the shower one day.
When I emerged from the shower in the third floor bath, I went to the font sliding glass doors to look at the Gulf, but all I saw was smoke billowing all around the house. Quickly I threw on a dress and ran down the stairs to the living room, grabbed the dog and fled out the door. As I walked out the door I noticed the smoke was all coming up around the front stairs, it was thick grey and choking me and the dog. We thought we were taking our lived in our hands as we ran down those stairs only to find my husband underneath the bottom of the stairs with a roaring bonofire he built under the house and out next door neighbor standing out between the two houses transfixed by panic unable to move or speak. Quickly I grabbed the hose and began to turn on the water when Michel began to holler at me not to put his fire out. I lost it this time and we had a huge arguement while I am still trying to water the fire and he is still defencind his right at a Free Frenchman to build fires if he wishes. Finally, I think he saw the folly of his actions and let me douse the fire with water and we both revived the neighbor. We have never since spoken about this incident and I suppose we never will because he still thinks I was wrong for putting out the lovely fire.
Anyway, sure enough yesterday Michel lite the space heater in the bathroom wall
and took a shower. After he got out he hung the towel
on the rack....heater still going and M. was shaving,
brushing teeth and so forth....well towel caught fire
and started smoking. I was at the computer and thought
I smelt smoke but not sure (nose stopped up as usual)
then a naked Michel is dancing through the room into
the kitchen (trying to hide the burnt towel so he can
stuff it in the trash without me knowing?) as the
smoke alarms go off. I say, "what's going on, what's
burning". Like a naughty kid who is caught he says,
"oh nothing, it is nothing" while the smoke alarm
screams away. So I say well it's hardly nothing if
the smoke alarm is engaged and squeeling. About that
time M. says " oh neighbor is at the gate and I am
naked - you go see what he wants" I storm out, I know
what he wants: not to be burnt down when our house
burns up.
Sure enough there is poor John at the gate, cell phone
in hand about to call the fire department and Anne his
mother-in-law hanging over the railing of their
house....wondering if we are going to burn their place
down too (houses close together). I thank them nicely
and mutter something about Michel catching fire the
towel but trying not to be too specific as insurance
companies frown on gas space heaters and seem to want
them disconnected...... so that was our day yesterday.
Today, still burning scorch smell in bathroom, one
dead towel, Michel might have possibly learned a
lesson but I doubt that fact very much.
The sad thing is that Michel's parents never taught
him anything common or sensible and he knows nothing
about fire or gas or chemicals or anything. They were
French society and the kids had nannies. He actually
had his own nanny to dress him and take care of him
until he was well into upper childhood and then was
sent away to school. So, he knows 6 or so languages
and everything about books but nothing about daily
commmon life. He was not a boy scout or anything like
that, never went camping or fishing or any of the fun
outdoor things, and it really helps in later life.
As for me, my Adirondack training and the fact I was a
Camp Fire Girl and had a Dad who loved to hike and
liked flora and fuana, gave me a great basis which I
tend to take for granted.
M. is a real pyromaniac too (LOL). He loves fire. He
thinks of ways to make fires. He drove me nuts when
we had the house on Crystal Beach because he was
always setting fires with leaves and grass (he racked
up) in the high winds and usually it was too dry.
Once when I told him the winds were too strong to burn
a bonfire he actually lit one anyway under the all
wood stairs of the all wood house. Omg, I don't have
to tell you what a fit I had with the water hose and
the neighbor standing out incredulous at the scene.
Michel hollering at me because "there is no danger"
right sure.
