It was a normal Christmas Day for most folks, I guess. Not for us. It never was. Christmas Day almost always seemed to have some kind of excitement for the Martins. This day particular day would be no different in promising adventure. We had even changed locations for our Christmas celebration.
I was probably around the ripe age of 13. My mom's family had decided to come on Christmas Day to our house. This was out of the ordinary. I don't remember us doing this before or since. We were enjoying the day, had finished lunch, and had finished opening gifts. We were actually cleaning up the wrapping papar and boxes. Both my grandparents were alive at the time and were there. My uncle Ken and aunt Cindy were present with their kids, David and Heather. I believe that my uncle Donald Joe had also joined us for the festivities. Some were actually leaving when the excitement began; some may have already escaped before it began.
I had asked my mom if I could burn the paper and boxes in the roaring fire in our fireplace. She said, "No." So, I promptly began to ignore that direct order and burn the paper. I am sure you self-righteous types never disobeyed your parents.
In the Spirit of Christmas, my mom had decorated the house. Part of these decorations was a wreath that she hung just above the fireplace. This wreath was something like the equivalent of hay that had been soaked in fuel oil. At least, you would have thought this a little later on. As I began to cram paper and boxes into the fireplace against better judgment, my mom's, the mass of now heaping flames fell forward into the screen. Are you getting the picture? This is where the madness insued.
My grandmother, you know the one with the boots (See the story "She Just Wore Boots), was warmning her butt by the fire. When the fire fell forward, the large plume of flames caught the wreath, or molitov cocktail, on fire. It burst into full flame immediately. Everyone's attention was quickly drawn to the impending crisis. Our attention was diverted only when my grandmother, not on fire, dropped and rolled into a hunched crawling position. From that position, she began to scurry quickly across the floor. My grandfather's repsonse was, "Dad dog Louise....expletive, expletive, expletive (that means he was cursing). I was quick to follow with an inappropriate response. I began to panic. I was only 13, mind you. I let out a stream of curse words that would make a sailor blush likely because I felt guilt from disobeying my mom and possibly burning down the house which was a pretty likely scenario at this point. My grandfather saved the day. Smoke was getting thick and the flame bigger. He jumped up, took a fireplace tool (a hook like thing), and raked the wreath into the fireplace. Christmas was salvaged.
The family had all reconvened outside in the carport. Everyone was processing the situation. My grandmother was nursing massive carpet burns on her knees from where she had scurried to safety. All was well, minus a Christmas wreath.
Moral: Christmas wreaths are highly flamable.
I love you, your servant, your friend,
Tim
I was probably around the ripe age of 13. My mom's family had decided to come on Christmas Day to our house. This was out of the ordinary. I don't remember us doing this before or since. We were enjoying the day, had finished lunch, and had finished opening gifts. We were actually cleaning up the wrapping papar and boxes. Both my grandparents were alive at the time and were there. My uncle Ken and aunt Cindy were present with their kids, David and Heather. I believe that my uncle Donald Joe had also joined us for the festivities. Some were actually leaving when the excitement began; some may have already escaped before it began.
I had asked my mom if I could burn the paper and boxes in the roaring fire in our fireplace. She said, "No." So, I promptly began to ignore that direct order and burn the paper. I am sure you self-righteous types never disobeyed your parents.
In the Spirit of Christmas, my mom had decorated the house. Part of these decorations was a wreath that she hung just above the fireplace. This wreath was something like the equivalent of hay that had been soaked in fuel oil. At least, you would have thought this a little later on. As I began to cram paper and boxes into the fireplace against better judgment, my mom's, the mass of now heaping flames fell forward into the screen. Are you getting the picture? This is where the madness insued.
My grandmother, you know the one with the boots (See the story "She Just Wore Boots), was warmning her butt by the fire. When the fire fell forward, the large plume of flames caught the wreath, or molitov cocktail, on fire. It burst into full flame immediately. Everyone's attention was quickly drawn to the impending crisis. Our attention was diverted only when my grandmother, not on fire, dropped and rolled into a hunched crawling position. From that position, she began to scurry quickly across the floor. My grandfather's repsonse was, "Dad dog Louise....expletive, expletive, expletive (that means he was cursing). I was quick to follow with an inappropriate response. I began to panic. I was only 13, mind you. I let out a stream of curse words that would make a sailor blush likely because I felt guilt from disobeying my mom and possibly burning down the house which was a pretty likely scenario at this point. My grandfather saved the day. Smoke was getting thick and the flame bigger. He jumped up, took a fireplace tool (a hook like thing), and raked the wreath into the fireplace. Christmas was salvaged.
The family had all reconvened outside in the carport. Everyone was processing the situation. My grandmother was nursing massive carpet burns on her knees from where she had scurried to safety. All was well, minus a Christmas wreath.
Moral: Christmas wreaths are highly flamable.
I love you, your servant, your friend,
Tim
Comments