Veering off the Learning Curve

Once almost too long to remember ago, my sister and I were enjoying an afternoon of being left home alone - which was alright to do back then as well as pistol whipping your children since there wasn't all this proper parenting BS to contend with - and aside from trying to figure out what would be the most fun to do while causing the least repercussions, our only appointed task for the day was to remove the dried-up and nearly petrified Christmas tree that was long past being a fire hazard; I think it was sometime in June.

So we took to the task with a vengeance and what seemed like an easy job, soon turned into a prickly nightmare as we attempted to remove the lights and ornaments that were now fused to the tree, while getting as few pine needles on the floor as possible. This done, we then pulled the tree into the back yard where it was to be cut up and put into the trash. At the time, it was unfashionable to just dump the last remains of one's Christmas out onto the street for someone else to deal with, which we would have readily done; I even have a faint recollection that dumping it over our neighbors wall entered our diabolical little minds.

But our higher selves got the best of us and out came the pruning shears and whatever other implements could be found for a quick and painless disposal, which idea soon got ditched as we found the wood to be much harder then the tender soft-spots on our hands that could endure. What to do, what to do. And in a crystallized moment invented out of necessity, we knew what to do; burn the bloody thing. Since burning it outside would pose a problem and the smoke would attract obvious attention, we decided to do the next best thing and burn it inside our house in the fireplace. Now this was no small tree and it was all we could do to cram it in the fireplace, but cram we did and in it went.

As we lit the match and proceeded to commit the last vestige of our holidays to an unceremonious departure, a twist of fate would soon turn that tree into a veritable yuletide terror since unbeknownst to us, the trap on the chimney closed while we were stuffing it into the fireplace. And not unlike Dante and his Inferno, as our match touched the wood, the tree's own three sins were instantly revealed which quickly erupted in a violent, malicious, and self-indulgent uprising that created a personal hell for us as the dried thing won the moment and menacingly sparked into the greatest of conflagrations. My sister and I watched in horror as billowing smoke regurgitated out of the closed chimney and instantly filled the room, along with great flames that tore rents in the escaping black as it danced its way up to the ceiling, while illuminating the sheer terror on our gaping eyes. In utter fright, my sister froze in one spot and let out screams that could raise the dead - which did little more then give a voice to the fire and thoroughly rattle my nerves - while I scrambled to retrieve a garden hose.

The run to the hose was the longest I ever made in my life, and mere seconds seemed to turn into light years as I attempted to turn on the water and run back to extinguish the fire. Sheer panic collided with images of my family in a relief center without a place to sleep for the night, sound-tracked by the horrified screams of my sister that steadily emanated from the house. I started running and as soon as I hit the patio - which was naturally wet since I was thoroughly spraying it as I made may way towards it - I slipped and hit the ground hard as I turned to enter the house. Without even a moment to spare to wince from the pain, I was back on my feet and spraying down the fire that had already turned the wall and part of the ceiling a nice shade of soot-black.

As soon as the fire was out, my sister regained herself which was not a moment too soon since she was close to passing out from hyperventilating and fear, and we quickly assessed the damage. It thankfully wasn't serious, but would need some serious time to clean up. So we opened every window, fanned, mopped, sponged, painted, sprayed air freshener, worried, sponged some more, re-painted again and more or less spent the rest of the afternoon undoing the mess we had made. No sooner had we finished, our parents arrived home and were met by two kids who were themselves freshly painted in guilt and probably looked as if they had just killed the Pope. The smell of smoke soon gave us away and the story was out, but in the end and much to our surprise, we were praised by the way it was handled and the pistol whipping was spared for another day.