Deborah Woehr

Yesterday, we had a bunch of friends over to watch the SuperBowl. Let’s just say that the commericals were more exciting than the game. None of us (men or women) could get into it. While the women visitied, the men began slamming down the brewskies. That’s when the craziness always starts.

One of my husband’s friends has a wild streak in him. I’ll call him “E.” All of the men migrated to the backyard, where the firepit sits a mere four feet from the pool. E starts burning all kinds of things, only I don’t realize this until one of the women comments on the different colors.

I look out the window in time to see E sit a basketball on top of whatever else was burning in the it. At this point, I don’t know what all he’s burned. The basketball rolls out of the pit on fire, giving a feeble bounce before it rolls onto our lawn. My husband is standing near the kitchen counter, laughing at the spectacle.

I look at him and said, “He’s going to catch our lawn on fire.”
Still chuckling, he said, “Nah! The lawn is green. It won’t catch on fire.”
Let’s hope not, I thought before I walked into the living room.

A moment later, I smelled burning plastic and walked back into the kitchen. That was when I caught all of the kids standing right next to the burning pit. I didn’t see one adult out there with them. Shit!

I opened the door and called for them to get away from the pit and come inside. Two of the wives were standing at my counter, slicing cake for everyone. They got annoyed that the guys weren’t watching the kids. Another lady I had invited over was already upset because the boys had locked her son out of my oldest’s room, excluding him.

I still don’t know what happened, exactly, but at the moment my focus was on not having a Rescue 911 moment. I herded the kids back into the house, where they immediately started tearing up and down the hall. The smell of burning plastic was very strong, and I prayed that the neighbors wouldn’t call the police.

We live in an upper middle class neighborhood (a.k.a. wannabe rich). Somebody was bound to complain, I thought as I stepped outside for a smoke. I looked at the multi-colored fire before I sat down to light my cigarette.

Right about then, I heard somebody call me from the other side of the yard. I looked in the darkness, but didn’t see E until he moved.

“What are you doing?” I said.
“Foraging,” E replied. Then walked up to the pit with an old pair of garden gloves in his hand. These went on top of the pile. I decided right then that I was going to have a talk with my husband when everybody left.

The kids spot us outside and decide that they want to play in the fort my oldest built at the top of our hill. I told them to be careful when walking past the pit. They’re up there playing when the mother of the formerly excluded boy comes out and says, “Where’s my son?”

I point at the hill, trying not to cringe at her tone. She’s the leader of my youngest’s Cub Scout den and a former military woman. Order is very much her style, and what went on around her last night was total chaos. If she ever comes to another of our parties, I’ll be very surprised.

E decided to mellow out with his pyro show, but it was too late. The air around our house reeked of burning plastic, and I was worried that some of the huge embers that were flying around earlier had landed on our roof or in the trees. Everyone went into the house to eat the cake and talk about how our kids are growing up.

After everyone left, I approached my husband and started a discussion. Neither one of us like to fight, so we have discussions. I reminded him of the type of neighborhood we live in and the potential for fines, etc. He conceded.

Then he went on to say that E and one of the other couples were talking about moving soon. These get-togethers won’t last forever, and he wants to enjoy their company for as long as he can. I understood what he was saying, but requested that he instruct E to use our firepit more responsibly.

This morning, I looked outside and found the burnt remains of that basketball sitting on my lawn. Silt lays at the bottom of our pool, and our patio is covered with ash. Our house and trees are untouched. More important, the smell is gone.