By Garret Leiva
Community editor
April 23, 2008 04:00 am There are some experiences you don't want to repeat. While root canals and seventh-grade gym class readily come to mind, forest fires are just a given. This past week a fire in Long Lake Township proved a little too close to home -- as in 200 yards from our front door. Nearly three years ago I wrote a similar sentence about another blaze just down the road. It is history, and words, I'd rather not repeat. When my wife smelled smoke last Wednesday night, it made her smolder in anger. She assumed it was the Internet installer taking a cigarette break outside after showing up two hours late. While there was a cloud of smoke around him, the installer was not puffing away but dutifully doing his job. In fact he seemed to be the only one oblivious to the ominous haze over our neighborhood. It's frightening how fast life can go from mundane to heart-pounding. In this case it only took dialing three numbers. Out at the end of the driveway, I stood like one of those reality TV rubes who takes video of an impending disaster instead of avoiding it. The footage may vary, but they all contain an astute observation like: "Golly, (Joe-Bob, Billy-Bob, Jethro) that (tornado, hurricane, rabid muskrat) is gettin' close." This statement is usually followed by censored interjections and run-for-your-life camera work. Unfortunately, the growing orange glow and treetops whipped by 40 mph winds looked all too familiar. I went back inside to take pictures off the wall; family photos moved in 2005 for the same reason. Life as we knew it was once again being condensed into a plastic laundry basket. After loading child, dog and irreplaceable stuff into our vehicle, one thing stopped us from fleeing the scene -- a big white repair van. What he lacked in punctuality, the Internet installer made up for in dogged determinism. As we raced around the house, frantically picking up possessions, he kept his nose to the proverbial cable modem. Only when informed of our intent to 'get the heck out of here' did he reluctantly pack up his tools. He said something about setting up a time for next Tuesday. We said something about if we still had a house that would be fine. When he saw all the flashing fire trucks down the street, however, he sprinted to his van faster than high-speed Internet. Thankfully the flames were extinguished before things got out of control. You can hardly tell that a potential disaster was avoided other than a blackened swath of earth. By the weekend I was out raking the yard. A mundane spring chore I was eternally grateful to repeat.
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Garret Leiva, Community editor