When I was a little girl, we lived in a charming house in the middle of the woods. This all sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale, but to me, I loved our little house with its crab apple trees and trickling brook and frog pond and wood furnace. It was a rented house, and so as a child I remember very little of its upkeep other than that horrible day when they tore up our raspberry bushes to dig a new well. I do remember being shaken awake at 3:00am and told to get up NOW.
I don’t think most people have memories of a fire as a child, even as simple one as a chimney fire. Few people heat with wood these days (at least in the States). I remember very little of it. I remember the plumes of black smoke coming from the chimney perched desperately atop the slanted roof. I recall wrapping a blanket over my shoulders and shivering the driveway, over by the blue-tarped junk pile left for us by our landlords. I remember being sleepy. I don’t even quite remember the fire trucks that somehow barreled down our narrow driveway and over the dicey bridge to our house.
But I do remember the smoke. It rose up like a dark genie, angry and foreboding. It fascinated me.
Then, just as quickly as it began, it was gone. We were tucked back in bed and the whole adventure seemed more like a dream.
The next day, the landlord sent someone to clean the chimney.
“Smoke.” – Daily Post Prompt