It was an ordinary mid-December Sunday morning in 1991 at 571 Berry Street, Coquitlam. The three of us—my wife of two years, Jeanie, her youngest daughter Sheena, age 12, and I were just finishing breakfast. It was Vancouver December weather, chilly with a light rain falling. I had a nice fire going in the family room fireplace, it warmed the family room, dining and kitchen area. I liked having a fire in the fireplace every winter morning since we were married.
I got up to stoke the fire and add another piece of firewood. Jeanie and Sheena began clearing the table and doing the dishes. I added a piece of wood.
There was a small cardboard Girl Guide cookie box on top of the remaining wood. We had bought the Girl Guide cookies earlier in the fall, then I attached the empty box to my bike handlebars in place of a proper rear bike carrier, which I didn’t yet have. The box had got wet, soft, and was virtually useless. I had taken it off and put it by the fireplace to dry. Its life as a bike container was over.
I put the entire box into the fireplace. I returned to the kitchen to help dry dishes. A few seconds later, when I glanced at the fireplace, I saw that the cookie box was burning fiercely, but it was only momentary, then it was dying down.
ln another few seconds, there was a dull, gentle roar that all of us heard simultaneously.
“That’s a chimney fire!” exclaimed Jeanie. “l told you the chimney should have been cleaned.”
“Couldn’t be,” I said. I hurried out into the backyard and looked up at the chimney.
Sure enough, orange flames about twelve inches high were coming out of the chimney, just like an old fashioned blowtorch. Orange embers were coming out too, as well as small black pieces of soot. The light rain was dampening them down and putting out the glowing embers. I ran back to the house.
“We’ve got a chimney fire!” I hollered.
“l told you,” Jeanie replied almost nonchalantly as she finished the dishes.
Sheena had retreated to the piano in the living room. She was practising her music lesson, playing with gusto and emphasis. I had a brief flashback to Nero and his fiddle.
“l’ll hook up the hose,” I told Jeanie. “I think it’ll reach the chimney.”
I hurried back outside and attached the put-away-for-the-winter garden hose to the outside tap. The flames were still coming out of the chimney.
I turned on the tap. No water. The outside tap had been turned off for the winter and drained. The shut-off tap was under the kitchen sink.
“Turn on the outside tap under the sink!” I shouted to Jeanie.
“Which one?” she called back. “There are about three or four taps under the sink!”
I came into the house with my shoes on and turned on the correct tap.
“I’m going to phone the Fire Department,” said Jeanie.
“No, don’t! Please don’t. Not yet! I’m sure I’ll get it out with the hose.”
I hurried back outside. Water was pouring out the end of the hose onto the lawn. But there was no nozzle on the end of the hose to restrict the flow and make it reach up to the chimney, which was over and beyond the glass patio roof.
I couldn’t find the nozzle in the garden shed where l thought it was.
Jeanie came out, looked at the chimney where the same amount of flames and the dull roar was continuing. She noticed my feeble efforts.
“I’m phoning the Fire Department!” she said decisively as she went back into the house.
She couldn’t immediately find the number.
Sheena called from the piano, “Phone 9-1-1, Mom. Phone 9-1-1.”
“l don’t need 9-1-1,” said Jeanie, flustered. “l need the FIRE DEPARTMENT!”
“Just phone 9-1-1, Mom,” Sheena said. “That lS the FIRE DEPARTMENT!”
Back outside, I got a short ladder to put up to the patio roof so that when I was up the ladder, I’d be closer to the chimney with the end of the hose. The full stream of water still didn’t reach the top of the chimney. I went back down and looked again, but I still couldn’t find the nozzle.
I went back up the ladder with the flowing hose. I put my thumb partially over the end of the hose. A much longer, rainbow of spray was now reaching the chimney. I redirected, re-aimed. The water was reaching the chimney top. ln a few seconds, the flames were dying down.
I called to Jeanie, “I’ve got it! It’s under control. Don’t phone the Fire Department. I’ve got it!”
“Too late,” she called back, “they’re on their way.”
“Call them off!” I said, “I’ve got it!”
“Too late,” she said, “they’re coming.”
Sure enough, I could hear the sirens, getting louder, getting closer. There was more than one truck coming. It sounded like there were sirens coming from Maple Ridge, Port Moody, New Westminster and Burnaby. I kept aiming the rainbow spray. Finally, there were no more flames.
The sirens stopped in front of the house. I got down off the ladder.
A fireman dressed like Neil Armstrong in his full, white, moon-walk attire was striding towards me. He had a very large, portable cell phone (new at the time!) in his gloved hand.
“Green,” he was saying into the phone. “Looks like we’ve got a green here.”
Behind him, two yellow-clad firemen were dragging a big red hose toward the chimney. Another two firemen were following with a large aluminum ladder.
I explained the situation as quickly and coherently as I could to Neil Armstrong. “We’ll still have a look,” he said.
The firemen got the ladder against the chimney and extended it. A fireman got on the ladder; the two others were just going to hand him the big red hose.
“Please,” I begged. “Please don’t turn on the big hose down the chimney. It’ll make a huge mess. I think it’s out. Please, just use the garden hose!”
The firemen paused. The one on the ladder said, “Hand me your hose.”
He took the running garden hose with him up the ladder. One of the firemen stood by the open patio door looking inside at the fireplace. Another stood at the corner of the house.
“No water yet,” called the patio door fireman to the one at the corner of the house.
“No water yet,” called the one at the corner to the fireman at the top of the ladder.
“Some water coming down,” called the patio fireman.
“Some water coming down,” repeated the corner fireman to the chimney top.
Neil and I were standing and watching from the lawn. “Fire’s out,” called Fireman #1.
‘The fire’s out,” called #2 to Fireman #3 at the top of the ladder.
Fireman #3 dropped the hose and started coming down the ladder. I turned off the tap.
“What’s in that room?” asked Neil, pointing to the upstairs window around the corner from the chimney.
“The main bedroom,” l said.
“I’d better check,” said Neil. He paused momentarily at the patio door and looked down at his moon-lander rubber boots. He only paused, then he walked inside with his boots on. He went up the carpeted stairs to the master bedroom. I followed with stocking feet.
The head of our queen-size bed was against the outside, chimney wall. He strode to the front of the bed and leaned across, putting the palm of his hand on the wall. He held it there.
“We just painted the bedroom yesterday,” I said truthfully. We had just painted the bedroom yesterday. He had no comment.
He went around to the other side of the bed, leaned across and put his other palm on the wall above the centre of the headboard and held it there. He made no comment.
We went back downstairs and outside. The other firemen had rolled up the hose, loaded the ladder, and were sitting inside the fire truck. The second truck had gone back to their own station shortly after their arrival at our home.
Neil Armstrong got into the passenger front seat of the truck. I thanked them all profusely. They drove away.
I firmly believe Girl Guide Cookie boxes start chimney fires. However, now we clean our chimney every year anyhow.