Regular Life

My wife is very good at interior design. She’s creative and has a flair for making something look nice without a lot of money. She also happens to be very smart. Recently, however, all of that backfired on her (with the emphasis on fire).

A couple nights ago, as Shannon watched something recorded on the DVR, I lay on my back on the living room floor letting life’s stress flow into the carpet. Ben alternated playing with me and going to get more toys from his room. I glanced at the Christmas tree and recalled Ben pointing to each Santa ornament saying, “Dat’s anunna Santa wight dey-ah.” We don’t call his addition of syllables a southern accent; rather, it’s a symptom of being a toddler.

I was thirsty, but staying put would feel much better than getting up. Reluctantly, my body agreed to rise and walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. The first thing I noticed was one of two sleighs in a corner where the two kitchen counters meet. Each sleigh had reindeer as rails.

At first, it didn’t quite register that something was wrong. It is not unusual to see candles burning at any given time in our house. This, however, was much different. The flames were too wide, too high. One of the reindeer sleighs was on fire.

“Fire, this thing’s on fire!” I said as I rushed to the kitchen counter.

“What?!” Shannon shrieked from the living room, as if I’d said my finger had fallen off. She has a strong sense of urgency, that one.

“Oh no, this one’s about to do it too!” she yelled as she ran up next to me.

I lifted the reindeer sleigh and blew on it like it was a birthday cake for a 50-year old. The flames went out, replaced by huge plumes of smoke. I carried the burned mess out the kitchen door and set it, smoldering, on the back step. A couple pats of a wet paper towel to the remaining glowing red edges, and I was able to bring it back in to look at the damage.

The candle had completely melted and only a gooey pond of white wax remained. Rising from the white pond were wood shavings, tiny evergreen branches, and the other makings of potpourri. The only parts not charred black were a couple of pine cones painted gold. I can say with all manner of certainty that fire retardant paint works as advertised. The reindeer themselves seemed unaffected and, if I may say, oblivious.

As I tried to figure out who would have designed a decoration like this, I asked Shannon, “So, where did this come from? Didn’t they know that once the candle burned down far enough, all this stuff around it would ignite?”

“Well,” Shannon started.

“Or, did you add the potpourri later?”

“No, it didn’t have either one when I bought it,” she said.

“So you added the candle and the potpourri?”

Shannon shrugged her shoulders and made one of those faces, you know, with the I-screwed-up-but-isn’t-it-funny-since-nobody-got-hurt smiles.

“Yeah, and I did that one too. It was about to do the same thing.” She pointed to the other reindeer sleigh. The wick in it had burned all the way down and blackened a few of the wood shavings.

I doubled over and laughed harder than I have in a couple weeks. Shannon laughed, too. Unwanted open flame. Good, clean fun.

“Good thing I needed a glass of water. That could have been ugly.” I wonder now exactly what would have tipped us off to the problem otherwise. Probably the smell, and by then the reindeer would have had flaming antlers, like some bizarre special effect from the (imaginary) movie Christmas in Hell.

Smoke lingered in the kitchen. Ben walked around coughing, but I think that was related to his cold more than smoke inhalation. Crisis averted, we went back to the business of hanging out, the loud whirring of the range hood exhaust fan providing a white noise soundtrack.

Aftermath

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