It's Not Funny Yet

"Some day, you'll look back on this and laugh."

Apparently, some day has not arrived because I still don't feel like laughing. Until this week, it's been *relatively* uneventful ever since our initial storm-related homestead fails.

Sure there were a few instances that felt a little scary. Like when our Khaki Campbells got stuck in the 2x4 slots in our newly installed fence (funny image) or when we came home to half the flock mysteriously hanging out on the other side of the fence after we'd covered the fence with netting to prevent the aforementioned stuck duck problem from occurring again. There was the time that our car ended up in a ditch earlier this winter and we had to get help pushing it out of the snow; the time Mr. Bee acquired a 1/2 inch splinter while building the DuckMahal and we contemplated going to minor emergency to get it removed; the month of flooding our garage endured after the giant snow melt; and even the multiple occasions where I have suffered nearly debilitating allergic reactions from getting cold. Out of everything, the $400+ propane bills that arrived each month before we installed a wood stove seemed the most traumatic.

But those are just examples of normal, daily life right? Your inexperienced, ambitious, and, well, human. It's bound to happen. (If this is not the case and your life is regularly free from the scenarios above or ones like them, I don't believe you. And, if it is true, don't tell me.)

On Thursday night, however, we experienced a true homestead fail. It started off an average evening after work, with me feeding the ducks and Mr. Bee starting a fire. We'd just received some compressed-wood logs from a family member ("These'll burn nice 'n hot; you'll like them") and out of laziness we chose to use the compressed log instead of chopping our own real wood. Now, don't judge, modern conveniences are still utilized and occasionally appealing on our homestead; it doesn't go against our philosophy of life.

Anyhow, the log went into the stove and we continued into our evening. Just before bed, around 10pm, we got our first inkling that something wasn't right. The fire alarms screeched their warning and the house was filled with a light smoke. This has happened before when burning a "green" piece of wood. We turned on the fans, opened the windows and turned down the damper on the stove.

Instead of slowing down, the fire raged on regardless of the damper. The smoke continued and before long, we discovered a small glowing hole in our stove pipe. The house was hot. The air smelled sweet and sickening. I opened the front door to get more air. Mr. Bee got quiet and went outside, calling for me to turn off all the lights in our house. 

He came back a few minutes later, obviously worried.

"The chimney is on fire."

Everything in me stopped. I'm a new home owner. These aren't exactly the words I expected hearing four months after move in or ones that I ever wanted to hear while standing inside a house.

Mr. Bee and I have known each other for time long enough to be considered "forever." We work well together and while I ran to grab the fire extinguisher, I knew there was no one I'd rather be in crisis with than him. He deftly opened the stove (aren't we glad we chose to get a top loading model!) and sprayed the powder in. The smoke lessened and things seemed to calm down. He closed the stove lid and ran back outside.

Almost as soon as he'd left, the stove lit up again. I always wondered about those authors who devote lengthy passages to flames and the life of a fire. Now I understand why. When you are battling against the red, orange and blue it really does seem like a living entity. 

The chimney fire had quelled but we knew it would come back if we didn't contain the fire in the stove. We exhausted the contents of the fire extinguisher and moved to pulling out crumbles of burning log and dumping them into a large bucket filled with water. At some point, we'd removed enough to see the bottom of the stove and learn that the fire was no longer coming from the box but from the chamber behind the stove as well as in the base of the stove pipes.

"Should I call 9-1-1?"  

Mr. Bee nodded. The operator was nice and professional with a million relevant questions, all of which I'm sure I inadequately answered. Fortunately for me, I didn't have to live through the shame and embarrassment of flashing lights and sirens. It was a non-emergency situation so they only sent half of our city's fire department (two guys) to check out the situation. The truck was giant and I could feel it coming for over a mile, and I'm sure at least a few neighbors noticed. The firefighters brought a nifty little heat gun to check the temperature of the roof, walls, and pipes. They crawled into our attic and told a few stories about the dangers of compressed logs. 

Eventually, they left us with a few reassuring words: We don't think the roof will catch fire. Call us back if you have any more problems. 

It's a little disheveled and dusty, but otherwise, you'd never know what happened.
Until you tried to light the stove that is. 

Do you feel like you are reading one of those mystery stories where you have to turn the page to read the answer? Any guesses? 

 As Mr. Bee so expertly explained: The compressed log was held together with wax. Our stove, being efficiently designed, burned the wood much hotter than the log was designed for. Instead of the wax  burning slowly over time, it quickly turned gaseous and collected on the walls of the stove pipe. Once accumulated, the fire burned the wax like gasoline which caused flames to shoot out of the chimney. 

Moral of the story: If we can ever get our stove fixed, we'll stick to real wood from here on out.