This is one of the fire trucks that arrived at my house on Sunday evening. I was away at a soccer game with my oldest son. My husband was at home in charge. This made me happy. The last time the fire department - every man on duty - showed up at my house, I was the adult in charge.
When my husband saw the emergency lights panning the interior of our house through the porch windows, he ran to the front door. Flinging it open, he rushed outside, expecting to see a neighbor's home swallowed in flames.
Three fire trucks lined up on the curb. Men in all stages of fireman dress stood in the grass and on the sidewalk. The whiz of hoses unrolling had a sentimental twang. One hero called to another, "Hey, we've been to this house before!"
"Yep," his partner answered. My husband, blinded by the red flashing lights and struggling to find his way out of the smoke boiling from our screened porch, stepped onto the front walk. "What's the emergency y'all?" he asked.
"Looks like you've got yourself a fire," the Chief answered, an axe in his hand.
"No," my husband said. He looked back our house smothered in smoke. He laughed. "No, everything is fine here. It's alright."
The Chief was not convinced. Men continued to suit up. Hoses buzzed. My beloved held up both hands, showing his palms to the crew to convince them to stand down.
"It's okay," he said. "I'm just cooking."
His escapade made the Wednesday paper: