I remember sitting at my desk in the second grade. I was somewhere toward the back that time of year, near the window and back toward the reading corner where we could occasionally hear stories. I was a good student, so I typically was assigned a seat further back. Being close to the reading corner meant I could creep back there and read books when I finished my work early, or I got to work my way through the laminated reading comprehension booklets. They were color-coded to level of difficulty, kind of like martial arts belts. The students who gave a shit would brag about what color they had achieved, and make fun of the students who were still stuck on remedial green.
So yeah, I was pretty cocky in the second grade, and I stood up straight as the volunteer fireman (all rescue squad members are volunteer in my hometown and surrounding towns) came in to talk to us about Fire Safety Week. Maybe it was the foreshadowing of the infatuation I would have on anyone who resembled a fireman for the rest of my life.
Apparently, it was Fire Safety Week. But, Fire Safety Week was only one day at my school, because when it came between learning about Jesus and learning about fire safety, Jesus took precedence. I guess I understand, if you die in a fire, you will get to Jesus faster. I know that’s dramatic, and I really didn’t care, because a week’s worth of fire activities probably would have traumatized me. You will understand why shortly.
So the fireman wants to talk to us about fire safety. I sit a little taller. Stop, Drop and Roll. Don’t play with matches. I got this.
But they don’t go over any of that, they hand out coloring pages. Ok, I like to color. This should be fun, maybe even more fun than violently throwing yourself on the floor and rolling yourself into a frenzy. It’s a picture of a house. I poise my purple crayon, because it’s my favorite color. My room is purple, and I believe at the age of eight that everything in my future house someday will be purple.
But the fireman is making this into an exercise. Boo.
“Ok, kids. Everyone take a green crayon and color the rooms you have a smoke detector in,” said the fireman.
I grab my green crayon and freeze. Wait, what? Smoke detector? What’s that? We don’t have one. I mentally search my house. Nope, none.
I look around and notice other children coloring. I start to panic. Oh my god. These other kids have smoke detectors in their houses? What the hell?
I start to slump in my desk.
“Now, everyone take a yellow crayon and color where you have a fire extinguisher in your house.”
Oh come on, no one is going to have this.
Not everyone stared coloring, but a few kids did. I slump down further.
The fireman starts to list off fire hazards that exist in my house. The curling irons my mom sometimes leaves plugged in. Old wiring. Our Christmas tree we keep on day and night. An old coil space heater that is in our bathroom wall. It’s really warm, but I don’t like it because it spits sparks at me sometimes, and one time a spark hit the towel basket underneath it.
There is one major fire hazard the fireman didn’t mention: a dad whose cooking skills are so non-existent, he started literal fires in our kitchen. Mom had to re-paint the cupboards a few years previous. He is forbidden to touch the stove when Mom is not home. That’s how fire safety is practiced at my house.
The fireman says a few more words, and gives us a reflective sticker to hang in our bedrooms. This sticker will alert a fireman that a child is in that room. It’s a picture of a fireman carrying a tranquil child. By tranquil, I mean most likely dead from smoke inhalation, at least that’s how I look at it since we live ten miles from town.
I spend the rest of the day in a daze. Visions run through my head: my canopy bed in flames, my Barbie’s faces melting. I ride the bus home thinking I am going to be the hero of my family. I will talk my parents into getting smoke detectors and extinguishers. I will even go the extra mile and suggest a fire escape ladder on the balcony outside my second-story window.
My mom was still stay-at-home then, and yells at us to take our school clothes off as soon as we get through the door.
“I hate it when you say that,” my sister says as she rolls her eyes.
My mom and sister start to bicker, but I interrupt. This is more important, dammit.
“Mom?….Mom?….Mom….Mom!”
“What?” She looks away from Oprah, who was still fat then.
“Why don’t we have smoke detectors?” I ask.
“What? Well, if the house burns down, we can move to town.Why?” my mom asks impatiently. She is not a fan of farm life and has not hidden it well.
I tell her everything the fireman said. She smirks.
“Why don’t you ask your father about that when he gets in?”
I remember it being late when my dad got in from the field. I looked up the timing of Fire Safety Week and it was in October, so I can safely assume my dad was harvesting. My memory confirms this. Dad comes in well after dark, smelling like diesel exhaust. It’s a smell I still associate with home. He’s covered in dirt and corn-dust in his hair. He shuffles to the table and sits down. Mom hands me the plate she’s been keeping warm for him and I walk it over to my dad. He smiles, never too tired for his youngest daughter.
“Hi Sugar, how are you?” he asks.
“Ok,” I say.
“What did you learn in school today?”
It’s a question he asks me daily, and I normally respond, “nothing,” and pretend to be interested in whatever baseball game he was watching, like a good daughter. But tonight, I had other plans.
“We had a fireman come to school today,” I start.
“Oh yeah, what did he say,” Dad asks with his mouth full.
“Dad, why don’t we have smoke detectors?”
My dad closes his eyes, raises his eyebrows, opens his mouth and starts to subtly shake his head. He does this when he thinking.
“Well…well…we don’t need them,” he says.
“Yes we do!”
“I got along just fine without them.”
“But our house is really old! And you’ve started fires when you’re cooking.”
Dad shoots a look at my mother. She's trying to cover her grin because she thinks this is hilarious.
“There is nothing wrong with my cooking. Your mom just doesn’t like it.” He smirks at the absurdity of this.
But I’m serious.
“We need to have one in every room, and we need to have one fire extinguisher on each floor. We probably should have a ladder outside my room for a fire escape upstairs. And I have to put my sticker in my window!”
“Sticker? What sticker?” he asks.
I run and get my reflective sticker. Dad holds it up, and says, “Well, we better put that up right now, shouldn’t we?”
I’m enthused. He’s seeing things my way. We go up to my room and Dad puts the sticker on my window.
“There. You’re safe. See, we don’t need smoke detectors. We’ve got this.”
“What? No, WE STILL NEED THEM!!!” I start to argue with my dad. I repeat my argument.
“Ok, sugar, ok. We’ll get them,” my dad gives up and goes downstairs to finish dinner. It’s the same resignation I’d seen on his face when I berated him for not wearing his seatbelt and he would slip it on when we were one mile from home.
To this day, there are no smoke detectors in my parent’s house. It’s not that my parents didn’t care about our safety, but my dad didn’t grow up with them so he didn’t see the need. He was probably more concerned about getting the crop out so he could feed the family for the year. If I had asked for these things at a time other than harvest or planting season, I probably would have gotten it. I learned this later when I asked for a dog. My dad does not like dogs, and I got two. That’s why you ask in early September.
I was talking about this to Josh recently in our living room. I told him I’m pretty sure that sticker is still on my window.
“Just think,” Josh said, “how many pedophiles have been helped with that sticker.”
I look at him in horror. He just raises his eyebrows in seriousness.
“What? Am I wrong? Just think about it.”
Yes dear, very wrong indeed.
