September Fire

I talked to the early intervention intake lady today about Christian. I wrote before that he is slower than my other kids. He still doesn't walk and hardly talks. She gave me a good bit of advice. She said write down what he's doing today and then compare it with what he is doing next week and she said STOP comparing him with other children. I'm only to compare his current development with his past.

I thought that was good advice that applies to all of us. I should only compare myself with my past self and if I'm doing better, I'm on the right track. Why do we compare? It's so useless.

So now I'm publishing my own piece on my blog. Ha ha, the one Inscape might throw out. We may not be in Annie Dillard territory but this piece is something that came from my heart and I'm proud. Writing like this is not something I'd ever done before even in college. So read if you like.

September Fire

It was September 1983 and I was a messy tow-headed seven year old the first year I burned the ditch banks with Dad. Every September, in a ritualistic revenge, my dad burned the dry yellow ditch banks of the irrigation ditch. The ditch ran north and south along the right side of my home in rural Highland , Utah . The ditch provided water for the surrounding farming fields near my home. The spring and summer ditch banks were a fertile breeding ground for the weeds that spread into Dad’s immaculately kept lawn and gardens. Every spring, five foot high stalks of deciduous Reed Canary Grass cloaked the ditch banks. Wildflower weeds such as white Queen Anne’s Lace, yellow Dandelions, and purple Bull Thistle mingled their fragrance and varied colors with the wild grass.

Dad saw no beauty in any of it. The constant Highland breezes blew weed seedlings from the ditch banks into Dad’s acre of manicured lawns, flowers, and vegetable gardens. All summer long Dad was forced to pull or poison unsightly weeds from his personal landscaped masterpiece. Eventually, late summer’s one hundred degree days evaporated the lushness from the ditch banks. All that remained by September was a dense tangle of corpse-like, dry yellow weeds that clung to the ditch banks. At that point, Dad was ready to burn.

I sat on the porch holding my purring cat Tabby when Dad came out of the house. He wore a brown plaid short sleeve shirt that buttoned all the way up to just below the collar. The shirt neatly covered his overweight belly and was tucked tightly into a pair of old, navy blue, polyester-blend Expand-O-Matic pants. The shoes he wore were faded brown leather side-buckled dress shoes, and except for being old, were exact replicas of the ones he wore to his office during the week. There was an excited spring in his quick step toward the ditch banks. The loose pant fabric just above Dad’s shoes waved like little flags in the wind. He held a box of Diamond Strike-Anywhere-Matches in his left hand.

Dad’s excitement was contagious. I put Tabby down, haphazardly brushed her hair off my t-shirt, and followed Dad across the front lawn toward the ditch. Dad received me, grateful for an assistant and asked me to kneel next to him in the ditch bank’s dry shroud. American Fork Canyon , the hulking mountain in our background, breathed down its usual whipping breeze. I made a wind-shelter with the back of my tan dirty hand and Dad lit the match by running it quick like a zipper across the matchbox’s rough side. The tiny orange flame on the matchstick grew quickly when placed amongst the dry weed matter. The fire crackled and sprang to life. I was so mesmerized by the flame that I didn’t notice Dad running towards the end of the field behind our house. When I saw him down the field, I got up and ran to him using zigzag motion to avoid tripping on the harvested corn stalks’ knobby remnants. The seconds passed in the thrill of my beating heart. The fire followed me; bolstered by the wind it ate hungrily at the dry weeds. As I ran, I saw our apple trees, the ones that lined the ditch banks on the other side of the fence engulfed in smoke. My younger sister Kelly was smiling and playing with a black cat in the now haze-framed tree house Dad built for us.

“Where are you going?” I yelled to Dad.

“I’m starting another fire on the other end of the ditch.”

“Why do we have to make two fires?”

Dad chuckled a little and said, “Well, Little Pow, that fire we just started will burn out of control unless I start another fire. The second fire will eventually meet with the first and they will burn each other out in the middle. It’s called fighting fire with fire.”

I’d never heard of fighting a fire with anything other than water and I felt uneasy. I watched as Dad started the second fire. When I turned and looked, the first fire was a terrifying vision of tall, haughty orange flames hotly licking the air in a blazing frenzy. I was struck by the beauty and chaos. The fire burned down the ditch bank like a runaway locomotive down a slicked up track. At the same time burning ashes jumped out of the fire, caught the wind, and gently flew past my face like tiny sparkling black kites. I licked my dry lips. Black smoke stung my eyes and engulfed me in oppressive waves. My stomach twisted and tensed. I put my forearm over my eyes and yelled to Dad over what was now, a raging din.

“Will the sparks blow somewhere else and start more fires?”

“Nah,” he said with a shake of his head and a deep, guttural exaggeration from his throat.

Through the smoke I caught a glimpse of Dad. His big cheeked face, rosy from the heat, was staring peacefully in the fire. The furrow above his prominent nose deepened, as if willing the fire into submission. His blue eyes squinted. His six foot hefty frame seemed more powerful and commanding than the crazy billowing inferno beside us. I turned and saw our neighbor Dale Hall and his brown mustache across the street getting his mail. He smelled smoke and looked across at us briefly as he walked toward his screen door. He nonchalantly slammed the door shut and went into the house when he saw Bruce Peck with his blond daughter, walking up and down the blazing ditch banks with the confidence of a four star general.