The Great Cochin Fire
18/05/09 15:41
When my 24-year-old husband assumed his first
pastorate in a north-Saskatchewan village, he thought
he’d ignite some spiritual fire in the community. He
did much more than that. He became known as the
preacher who put the word arson in parson.
The church and parsonage where we lived was a two-acre parcel of land on a hilltop overlooking a lake. My husband kept the grass watered and cut all around the buildings but the rocky slope below our bay window was impossible to mow. The grass grew tall and untended all summer then faded and lay dormant under winter’s snow to reappear, an unsightly tangled mess in the spring. I thought it marred the beauty of our lake view so I suggested to my husband that he clean it up.
The church and parsonage where we lived was a two-acre parcel of land on a hilltop overlooking a lake. My husband kept the grass watered and cut all around the buildings but the rocky slope below our bay window was impossible to mow. The grass grew tall and untended all summer then faded and lay dormant under winter’s snow to reappear, an unsightly tangled mess in the spring. I thought it marred the beauty of our lake view so I suggested to my husband that he clean it up.
We had watched one of our neighbors burn off his tall
grass early in spring before the snow melted from the
fence line that encircled his property. The neighbor
stood on his patio, drink in hand, and watched the
fire burn its way to the edges of his property. Like
an obedient child the blaze fizzled out when it hit
the border of snow. Within two weeks he had a
beautiful green lawn.
Quick to recognize a good idea, my husband decided to do the same thing. But he was a busy man. The demands of a growing church kept him occupied for several weeks. It wasn’t until late June, after a hot, dry spring that he finally had the chance to tend to my nagging.
Off to work I went one morning, oblivious to the impending danger. Several hours later, I returned to find the house vacant and my husband nowhere in sight. The only sign of life was a trail of sooty water leading from the front door to the kitchen sink. Just inside the door were the charred remains of a plastic garbage can and a soggy, gnarled rag that had once been my throw rug.
Going back outside, I spied a length of garden hose snaking from the outdoor faucet, across the lawn and over the lip of the hill, which sloped to the lake. Following the hose I walked to the crest of the hill.
Blackness all the way to the lake! To the edges of our property and dangerously beyond, the ground was still smoldering.
Slumped atop a boulder halfway down the hill and holding the burned off end of a hose was what appeared to be one of the chimney sweeps from the movie Mary Poppins.
“Caawwwneee,” he hallooed, giving a feeble wave. “I can’t leave my post. Come down.” I skidded down the ashy slope, trying not to fall as fits of laughter weakened my knees. Closer inspection of my bedraggled spouse revealed smoke-reddened eyes that constantly scanned in every direction. He kept whirling around, shooting pitiful dribbles at imaginary puffs of smoke. There were so many burn holes in the hoses a well-aimed spit would have been more effective.
The sad tale unfolded. About midmorning, he had decided to surprise me and “clean up that unsightly grass.” Just like our neighbor, all he had was a book of matches in one hand and a cold drink in the other. At the last minute, he fetched the gasoline used for the mower. After moistening the grass along the top of the hill with fuel, he paused to take a long pull from his cola, and tossed a match. Kaboom!
It took him and five elderly women—the only people at home or still alive in our village -- several hours to subdue the runaway inferno that threatened to consume our homes. The parting comment of one neighbor as she bolstered herself with a glass of whiskey brought small comfort:
“What is it with you Baptist preachers and fire? The last guy did the same dang thing!”
Quick to recognize a good idea, my husband decided to do the same thing. But he was a busy man. The demands of a growing church kept him occupied for several weeks. It wasn’t until late June, after a hot, dry spring that he finally had the chance to tend to my nagging.
Off to work I went one morning, oblivious to the impending danger. Several hours later, I returned to find the house vacant and my husband nowhere in sight. The only sign of life was a trail of sooty water leading from the front door to the kitchen sink. Just inside the door were the charred remains of a plastic garbage can and a soggy, gnarled rag that had once been my throw rug.
Going back outside, I spied a length of garden hose snaking from the outdoor faucet, across the lawn and over the lip of the hill, which sloped to the lake. Following the hose I walked to the crest of the hill.
Blackness all the way to the lake! To the edges of our property and dangerously beyond, the ground was still smoldering.
Slumped atop a boulder halfway down the hill and holding the burned off end of a hose was what appeared to be one of the chimney sweeps from the movie Mary Poppins.
“Caawwwneee,” he hallooed, giving a feeble wave. “I can’t leave my post. Come down.” I skidded down the ashy slope, trying not to fall as fits of laughter weakened my knees. Closer inspection of my bedraggled spouse revealed smoke-reddened eyes that constantly scanned in every direction. He kept whirling around, shooting pitiful dribbles at imaginary puffs of smoke. There were so many burn holes in the hoses a well-aimed spit would have been more effective.
The sad tale unfolded. About midmorning, he had decided to surprise me and “clean up that unsightly grass.” Just like our neighbor, all he had was a book of matches in one hand and a cold drink in the other. At the last minute, he fetched the gasoline used for the mower. After moistening the grass along the top of the hill with fuel, he paused to take a long pull from his cola, and tossed a match. Kaboom!
It took him and five elderly women—the only people at home or still alive in our village -- several hours to subdue the runaway inferno that threatened to consume our homes. The parting comment of one neighbor as she bolstered herself with a glass of whiskey brought small comfort:
“What is it with you Baptist preachers and fire? The last guy did the same dang thing!”