Our Very Own Vesuvius

Mom and I were just about to leave for the grocery store when my neighbor knocked on the door telling us we had fire coming out of our chimney. He seemed rather concerned, then confused when mom and I stood in the driveway watching the pretty sparks shoot from the chimney top. He left and my step-dad came home and the three of us stood in the unstacked woodpile and watched contentedly, occasionally meddling with the woodstove to make the flames bigger.

Now, we're not pyros or anything. I asked Jeff why we didn't bother calling the fire department, and he said we had a controlled chimney fire, and if they came they would open all the house doors, chase everyone outside, stomp around, and cause a ruckus. Our roof shingles were fire-retardant and the recent melted snow made the ground and wood pile too wet to catch anything on fire. The best thing to do was to let it burn itself out. Cool.

Little things like our most recent chimney fire make my family chuckle at the surrounding neighbors. They probably think we're crazy, and we're okay with that as long as we don't have to pay the electric bill that they do to heat their houses for the winter.