Roasting On An Open Fire

When my sister, Sherri, was in elementary school in the late 1950’s, she was on the Art Linkletter Show. For those of you too young to know Linkletter, he had a daytime talk show which included interviewing 4 little kids so they would respond with something cutesy and embarrassing in a segment called “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” For some reason, he chose little tykes from ultra-suburban Troutdale Elementary including Sherri in the bunch. During his questioning, Art asked her what her father did for a living. She said that he “drank beer.” My parents were horrified, fearful that visiting relatives would be appalled, but, most importantly, she got a big laugh. I’m guessing that if Sherri had said that in present day she would have ended up in a foster home.

The kids received gifts for being on the show and the big one that my sister got was a trampoline. Lots of fun was had with that trampoline. Dad would assemble the pipe frame and set it up in the front yard in the summertime. Sister, brother and I all would spend many warm, school-less summer days bouncing for hours flipping, spinning, and somersaulting pretending to be Chinese acrobats. Our elbows and knees would be burned from the course, heavy canvas. Eventually, my sister and brother grew out of their bouncing exploits. Being the baby though, I continued on. One day after years of much bouncing, and as I endlessly sprang up and down in front of the house, one foot went through the tired old canvas and landed on the grass beneath with a painful thud. End of trampoline.

My dad was a very handy man. He was always working on cars or fiberglassing a boat, gutting a sturgeon he caught himself or building an addition on to the house. He was crafty at using whatever was laying around at the time. So after the demise of the trampoline, he was was left with an extensive supply of steel piping waiting to be put to good use. Then years later, dad got out his metal saw and soldering iron, and created an electric fan-blown fireplace heater. It consisted of a series of those pipes jutting from a steel box at the front of the fireplace that gathered the blowing air from the fan. The pipes ran across the fireplace floor, curved up the back, then curved out again at the top so that the pipe openings faced out. One would build a fire on top of the metal tubes which would heat the air inside and, once the fan was switched on, blow hot air into the room. The living room always seemed to be a cozy 95 degrees.

One particular Christmas day in the mid 70’s had the usual family suspects. Grandma and Grandpa Allen from my mother’s side and dad’s mom, Grandma Holman. I don’t think Sherri was there for that Christmas being married and living in San Diego at the time. My brother Gary was there somewhere – probably hiding out in the basement until he absolutely had to make an appearance. It was a cool, gray late December Oregon day and dad had built a fire on top of his electric fan-blown fireplace heater. The day progressed predictably with Grandma H expounding on the usual happy holiday topics of corrupt politics, ill-health, and local crime with Grandpa Allen. Mom was in the kitchen whipping up dinner. The New Christy Minstrels Christmas album playing on the stereo. Eventually, the fireplace was filled with marshmallow roasting, perfect orange hot coals and my father decided it was time to throw on a Duraflame.

Now, if you’ve never used a Duraflame let me give you some advice. Follow the directions on the packaging. Use the log all by itself. Light each end and stare at it for 3 hours. Don’t touch it and for gods sake don’t put anything else in there with it. The fake timber is a bunch of wood chips compressed in wax and who knows what else. I guess my father didn’t read the instructions or didn’t think it mattered because he put the Duraflame onto the marshmallow perfect embers. The fire erupted. There was flaming bigger than Liberace. Then the house began to roar. The chimney was on fire. We all stood up in an overheated panic and began running around the room not doing anything in particular. I would like to think that there were hands waving and hysterical screaming but I doubt it. We’re not that kind of family. Someone called the fire department. Not sure who. We were all in high anxiety mode. I’m not even sure where my mom’s parents ran to or where Gary was for that matter (obliviously in the basement, I'm guessing). At some point, Grandma H first grabbed her purse — beige leather with a gold clasp that matched her suit and shoes — and second, grabbed me (I don’t remember what I had on. I’m sure it was holiday appropriate.). She moved through the kitchen past mom faster than I had ever seen her and beelined for the garage. We stood there together in the gasoline fumes coming from our Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon and watched flames shoot out of the top of the house. Good thing the fumes didn’t reach that far.

Quickly, the firemen arrived and soon the fire was out. Grandma pulled her purse and me back into the house. We all slowly calmed down, racing heart beats returned to normal accompanied by uncomfortable chuckling. Not sure what dad was feeling at that moment. He never seemed embarrassed or sheepish. Never usually did. My mother, though, never left the house. She stayed in her tiny kitchen preparing Christmas dinner with a frantic sense of urgency and speed. Maybe she wanted to get that damned dinner finished before the house burned down.

During the commotion, I thought it was a good idea to turn off the electric fan-blown fireplace heater. Not sure why. I was running on instinct and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe I thought it would prevent flames from being air blown into the living room and igniting the Christmas tree. Who knows? But dad turned it back on feeling that the pipes would melt if he didn’t. So it was still blowing hot air after the firemen left. The room now was at kiln level and we all sat flushed with heat and excitement, and got on with Christmas day.

Funny how one thing can produce several completely disparate experiences. That trampoline provided entertainment on hot summer days and heat on cold winter days. Not to mention Sherri’s stint on national television. But Art Linkletter will never know how he contributed to fun on warm school-free days or a particular fiery Christmas memory. Sadly though, bouncing all day is no longer an option and the electric fan-blown fireplace heater is long gone. Guess I’ll just drink a beer instead.