I *heart* The Mehlville Fire Department.
Tonite, after our frantic trip to WalMart to find Valentine's suitable for the kids' class parties tomorrow, I came inside the house to a horrible smell.
The house smelled like burnt wires.
I ran from room to room, eyeing the outlets, the lighting, the ceilings.
I saw nothing.
Before Christmas, a house near ours had a fire - one that started in the chimney and spread through the house within 15 minutes.
I ran outside and scoured the roofline. I came back inside and went through the basement, sniffing. Back upstairs. Sniffing. Definitely a stronger smell upstairs. Worse in the bedrooms.
I called my husband.
Isn't that funny? Do you do that - call your husband at work when
there's an emergency at home? Like he can do something from 50 miles
away. Um, hello? Our house might be on fire. Can you do
something?
He told me to call 911.
I went to the neighbor's.
Our (man) neighbor opened our front door - by now the kids are back in coats and shoes outside. He stepped back from the smell. He noted the smoke coming from the pipes in the roof. He said, "Call 911."
Fastforward. Two fire trucks. A police car.
The furnace.
Very unceremoniously, the fireman said, "You don't need us. You need a good furnace repairman."
Well don't that just beat the band?
Glad you came out, sir.
And then I burst into tears. Because that's what every good mother does, standing in a t-shirt in the middle of a snow-packed street, her kids climbing into fire trucks, and the baby insisting, "Fi-uh twucks aw for hewping us. Did you check the fi-uh pwace, Fi-uh Fight-uh?" Her poor little hands shaking from her intensity. Her mama shaking from relief.
