Throughout history, people have fallen in love and gotten married without much to live on other than their love for each other. With Smuffy and me, this was certainly the case. We’d saved and budgeted for the big day.

Midwest winters are unpredictable things. For our December wedding, the weather warmed to spring-like conditions, emboldening our invited guests. Even the elderly aunts and uncles, who would have normally found the winding country black-top roads intimidating, took a look at the forecast and said, “Why not?” They packed the tiny country church to its full capacity – a thing it hadn’t seen in years.

Smuffy and I had done a pretty good job at keeping our little secret. Having spent every dime on the wedding and our first month’s rent and utilities, we couldn’t afford a honeymoon. I’d started a new job as well and needed to earn some vacation time. Besides, if you don’t have enough cash to get you out of the Midwest in winter, why bother? We postponed the trip until May. We’d sneak back to our new home late on our wedding night and spend our few precious days secluded from the rest of the world. Low key – that’s the word I’m looking for – we’d just keep it low key and not draw any attention to ourselves. The last thing newlyweds need is a flock of well-meaning people stopping by.

And stop by they would have, if they’d wanted to reach us, because Smuffy and I didn’t have a phone! Let your mind wander back, my friends, to the good ‘ole days before cell phones. Installing a phone seemed just another expense that might as well be postponed for a month or two until we got settled.

And then it hit. We woke up to our first full day of married life to find our honeymoon cottage, and the car we’d concealed by driving it up into the yard by the back door, buried in deep snow. I misspeak when I refer to our rented country place as a cottage. We closed off most of the cavernous house and lived in three rooms. It didn’t help much. My shampoo froze in the bottle.

And then it hit. Freezing rain on top of the snow hardened it into a crust, turning the outside world into a skating rink.

And then it hit. Another deep snow fell. Enveloped in a winter wonderland, we were trapped, but we didn’t care. Except, how were we ever going to get the car out of the back yard?

Content to spend the snowy days making my house a home, I fluttered around, admiring and rearranging all the things I’d gotten as shower gifts. My ivory chantilly lace wedding gown hung on a hook over a door in the bedroom, it’s chapel-length veil cascading down over it. I must have touched it every time I passed near enough to do so. So lovely! Soon, I’d take it to be sealed away for future generations, but for now it made me feel like a beautiful bride every time I looked at it.

We’d been told that the house had new insulation. I became convinced that if this were true, it must still be stored in the barn. Wind howled through the place day and night. Interior doors of the house moved freely in the breeze if not securely latched. We kept the wood stove going strong, along with the furnace, which sucked fuel from a big tank outside. Filling it would have cost as much as three or four months rent, so we only had the man put an inch or so in the bottom of it.

After a few days, the snowplows cleared the road past our house and Smuffy began trying to get the car out of the back yard. We envisioned our landlords, who shared our driveway, watching from their windows in dismay at the deep ruts Smuffy carved before accomplishing his goal.

Smuffy woke me on our fourth day as man and wife with the announcement that the world had thawed to the point where we might take an outing. I started putting myself together and he went off to do whatever two or three things guys must do before they settle down to wait on females. He reappeared a few moments later.

“Do you smell smoke?” he asked.

“No,” I answered as I riffled through the drawer for clothes. “I don’t smell anything.”

Smuffy disappeared. I slipped into my outfit and started accessorizing. He returned.

“Are you sure you don’t smell smoke? I smell smoke.”

“No, I don’t smell a thing.” I turned to face him. “Are you sure…” I froze in place. “You…You’re standing in it!”

“What?”

Light, streaming through the windows, reflected off every particle. Smuffy stood in the bedroom doorway, enveloped in the fog.

“It’s all around you. You’re surrounded by smoke!”

We turned in every direction, searching for the source. Smuffy ran off to check the damper on the stove. He made a tour of the house, coming back to report that there were no signs of smoke anywhere else.

Then, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. The house’s old fireplaces had been sealed over years ago. Wallpaper, matching the rest of the room, now covered the areas that formerly housed cozy fires. The bedroom fireplace, however, seemed to be in a reminiscing mood. The center of the wallpapered panel darkened to a toasty brown before turning black and curling away. Though I didn’t actually hear the “Bonanza” theme as I pointed and stared, the resemblance was striking. Flames licked through the growing hole and I yelled for Smuffy.

After a brief and panicky discussion on the proper course of action, Smuffy, still in his bedroom slippers, ordered me to stay put while he called the fire department. He sailed out the front door, down the icy steps and kept on sailing. Landing on his backside, he sank through the top layer of snow and scooted across the encrusted front lawn toward the driveway, leaving one slipper behind. The other, launched through the air, landed some distance away.

I watched from the window, feeling helpless. Then, having always thought how silly women seemed in movies when they stood by clutching their throats while disaster unfolded, I took action. I ran for the wedding gown, tossing it in the center of the bed along with my purse, my jewelry box and a few keepsakes. Running around the bed, I gathered the corners of the quilt up over my treasures. Smuffy’s mother’s handmade quilt would survive, along with my gown, if I had to grab all four corners and make a run for it.

Then, I waited. Smuffy arrived, breathless, to report that though the landlords weren’t home, they’d left the back door unlocked, providing access to the phone. The relief that he hadn’t had to break their window was somewhat offset by the fact that, not being able to find their phone book, he’d completely ransacked the place. He’d found it, though, and made the call. The rural volunteer fire department was on the way.

We decided to watch and wait until the fire truck came with plenty of water and high-pressure hoses. Tampering with the burning hole might feed the flames additional oxygen and reduce the house to ashes before help arrived.

Smuffy opened the windows and insisted that I get out of the smoky bedroom, promising to give me plenty of notice in case I had to escape with my valuables. I went into the living room and sat down, watching him pace in and out of the bedroom. He looked peeved.

“They certainly aren’t very professional,” he snapped.

“Why? What happened?”

“Well, for one thing, when I called, the guy just says, ‘Hello?’”

“You have to remember, it is a rural volunteer fire department. It’s probably just one of the volunteer’s turn to be on call.”

I reminded him of the time, in my own tiny hometown, when a fire call came in and all the volunteers rushed to the fire department only to discover that not one of them had remembered to bring the keys to the fire truck. That sort of thing is bound to cause delays.

It didn’t seem to offer Smuffy much comfort.

“So then I said, ‘I’m calling about a fire’, and he says, ‘You got a fire?’ – like no one’s ever called them up to report a fire before!”

“But they’re on the way, right?”

Smuffy added some arm waving to his pacing before stopping to give an unflattering imitation of the man on the other end of the phone.

“I told him where we were located and he says, ‘I know where that is.’ Then, there’s this big pause and the guy says, ‘You want some help?’” At this point, poor Smuffy’s eyes protruded in disbelief. “I said, ‘Yes, I want some help!” I’d like to know what in the world he thought I called him for! Anyway, he says they’re coming.”

After that, I sat, watching Smuffy pace from window to window, muttering under his breath. Time stretched into what seemed an eternity before he stopped, watching a vehicle approach.

A large, red pickup truck turned into our driveway and stopped in front of the house. A man in overalls and knee-high, rubber gumboots climbed out and ambled toward the front door. I stood by, watching and wondering if it might just be somebody looking for our landlords.

However, he did seem to be our guest, for when Smuffy opened the door, he drawled, “You got a fire?”

“Yes, right in here.” Smuffy, all business, led him into the bedroom and pointed out the problem.

The man seemed to think the scene before him required careful consideration. He lifted the bill of his farmer cap, scratched his forehead and wiggled the cap back into place.

“Yup,” he said, “you sure got a fire in there.”

Smuffy tried to contain himself. “Well, do you have a hose?”

“No. No,” he drawled. “I got a squirt bottle, though. I’ll go get it.”

He moseyed out the door to his truck.

Smuffy turned to me, his jaw muscles twitching. “I don’t believe this!”

I didn’t know what to believe. I positioned myself next to the bed and guarded my bundle.

The man returned, carrying a plastic gallon milk jug full of water, which he squeezed onto the fire. He refilled it from the kitchen sink and had another go at it. Satisfied with the results, he looked up at Smuffy.

“You got a barbecue grill?”

Smuffy looked stricken. “Huh? What!”

“I thought if we had somethin’ like a barbecue grill and some kinda shovel, we could scoop up what’s left of the fire and take it outside. Then we can have a look up the chimney.”

It began to register on Smuffy’s face that he considered this a sound idea.

“I’ll go see what I can find.”

Smuffy had another go at lawn skating while I stood there in a grateful state of shock. I didn’t know what to say to this barnyard angel of mercy, so I didn’t say anything at all. I didn’t know what had happened to the fire truck. Perhaps it had hit a patch of ice and run off the road or perhaps Smuffy’s panicked directions had sent it to the wrong destination. I only knew that we had help and that was something. This kind man, appearing as if from nowhere, had come just when we needed him.

After pilfering the landlord’s barbecue grill and careening back home with it, Smuffy found a scoop of some sort and they went to work. With the fire carried outside, the fellas returned, each taking his turn looking up the chimney. They came to a mutual agreement that the burning portion of the flue having collapsed, everything seemed fine up above. Apparently, our entire house fire had just been carried outside and plopped into the snow. We left the smoky bedroom for the slightly more breathable living room.

I sank into the rocking chair, allowing my nerves, which had been tied into knots and sizzling on the ends, to unwind and cool down a bit. Smuffy’s nerves, however, appeared to be working themselves up into a series of knots that would make any Boy Scout proud.

The nice man walked to the door and turned to Smuffy.

“Yep. Yep. Looks like it’s all out now. ‘Course, I’d keep an eye on it for a day or two if I were you, just to be sure somethin’ doesn’t start up again in there. Maybe oughta let the wood stove go out and just use the furnace for a few days.”

Smuffy nodded. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it. But, before you go, I just have one question…”

I gave Smuffy the once over. He seemed to have worked himself up into quite a state. His chin rose in what I considered to be a rather haughty manner. His chest heaved, making him look as if he were about to burst. I had heard someone described once as apoplectic. Though I’d never been an eye-witness to such a condition, Smuffy gave me the distinct impression that he qualified.

The man met his gaze, his eyes honest and expectant.

“What I want to know,” Smuffy barked, “is whether the fire department always sends someone out to check to see if there’s really a fire before they send the fire truck!”

The man stared. I stared. I may only have been married a few days, but I knew a thing or two about men. Well, anyway, I knew enough to stifle the sudden-gasp-followed-by-outburst-of-laughter that threatened to escape me. I felt a few of my ribs trying to dislocate themselves in my efforts to contain it. My new husband had his pride, after all, and a whole lot of testosterone and pent-up frustration to go along with it. I pinched my lips together and held my breath.

After hoisting up his jaw from whence it had dropped, the man blinked at Smuffy.

“Fire Department? I’m not from the Fire Department!”

I bit my lip.

Smuffy stared back at him, wild-eyed.

“Well then, who are you?”

The story that followed left us no doubt that Smuffy had been on the receiving end of a miracle in spite of himself. In his frantic effort to get help, he’d called the number just above or below the phone book’s listing for the rural volunteer fire department. The man gave us his name, saying that he’d known exactly where to go, because our landlords had hired him a few months earlier to do some updates in the kitchen. We proceeded there and he proudly pointed out his handiwork to us before he left.

So much for our outing. We thought it best to stay close to home, fanning the smoke out of the windows and feeling the walls every five minutes – just to be sure.

 

As the shock wore off, we began to count our blessings. We could have left before the smoke became noticeable. With the landlords gone as well, we’d likely have come home to a pile of cinders. He’d called the wrong number, but he’d called the right wrong number.  Help did come and we learned that there are some truly Good Samaritans left in this world. It rearranged our priorities, too. Whatever other necessities had topped our list, we rearranged them all now in favor of our new Number 1: Install a Phone!

Of course, I promised Smuffy I’d keep the whole thing a secret. He relaxed his demands after a while, realizing that the faux-fireman, who did have a phone, had probably told his side of the story to most of the county before sunset.

(Just a note to all the local fire departments out there.  Stick to the current system.  The fire-scouting program, while perhaps tempting due to budgeting concerns, seems flawed somehow.)

While passion and romance had been the only things we’d planned to ignite, we ended up with much more – and it was only the beginning of my Life with Smuffy.

There’s more, folks!  Oh, there’s MORE!

Questions? Comments? I’d love to hear from you!