Fire

 6:16 a.m.

"Eric? The lights are flashing."

Audible pops and crackles accompanied each surge and dim, between 1–3 hertz. Something was definitely wrong.

I jumped up, listened more closely, and rushed outside. The transformer box next to our house, only five feet from the edge of our home, called out angrily, sputtering obscenities with each gushing of flame. Each bout of fire was only a foot in height, but it was especially strange seeing the fire emit from what I'd previously thought of as only asphalt. Smoke billowed from the transformer's core, telling me that fire may well also be in the box itself. The plumes were punctuated with each scream of the transformer; it reminded me of smoke signals. I immediately ran inside.

I called out to Katherine as I rushed upstairs: "You need to call out from work. I have to turn the breakers off."

The noise ceased as the circuit breakers were all turned off. I grabbed my phone and rushed downstairs, telling Katherine I would be calling 911 as I went outside.

The visible fire had stopped and the noises were gone. But the transformer itself continued to emit huge quantities of smoke. I called emergency services while I watched from a distance.

I can't recall his opening line; maybe he identified himself as a 911 operator first. But within two seconds of the phone call being answered, I was already prompted to give my address. I was then asked to repeat the address for the recording, asked for my name, and only then prompted to share what the emergency was. I get why they asked for the address twice before anything else, but why ask for my name? I suppose it may help to calm some people down, or perhaps help to identify people after the fact, but these seem insufficient reasons to ask for a name before asking about the emergency.

Two minutes later, I was off the phone and came inside to help Katherine and inform her of what was going on. She was in an inner room, using a lantern to see; together, we moved to the room closest to the front door, then I went outside to wait for the fire department. It did not take long for them to arrive.

I'm happy to report that all is well now. The fire department ensured nothing would get worse while the power company was called in to fix the issue. Once the smoke had stopped, the firemen left and the professionals began working on the issue. A pre-teen sized hole was dug; huge equipment was brought in on the street beside our home; and half a dozen workers did all that they could to resolve the issue. I was told I could turn my breakers back on, and, ten hours later, the electricity was back on in our home.

During those ten hours, a shipment of groceries arrived, Katherine played on her Switch, and I read voraciously. Overall, it went well. I am grateful to live in a place where people will come to help if we're ever in an emergency. In retrospect, the worst part of the day was surprisingly not that when I witnessed the small flames, nor hearing the loud pops, nor watching the continuous plumes of smoke while I talked to 911. No, the worst part was my reaction when the power came back on. I don't know how I ever got so spoiled, but I caught myself muttering a rather ungrateful "finally" as the power resumed and I was once again able to put my feet up in a power chair. I'm so embarrassed by my immediate reaction, and after only a moment's thought afterward, I chastised myself for being so jaded. Now, with the proper distance of it being 9 p.m. and the whole ordeal being over, I am properly thoughtful. I'm grateful to all those who helped us; I'm grateful to Katherine for noticing the problem so quickly and prompting me to act; and I'm especially grateful that the fire stayed away from our home proper.