Barn Fire

Apparently, the man they Chuck, the farmhand, carelessly threw a cigarette butt as he left the barn after the evening chores. It's not like something he would normally do. I don't want to make excuses for him, but it had been a tiring day. However, humans can be stupid sometimes, you know. Obviously he didn't put his cigarette out, and it landed in a pile of hay in one of the horse stalls. The first wisps of smoke didn't catch to full flames right away, but the smoke made Sugarcube, the plow horse, whinny and dance uncomfortably.

I sat in the tree across the pasture and watched. I could hear it when the animals started up their cacophony of panic. Farmer Tom and Chuck didn't come out of the house right away. They didn't come out until Doodledoo, the rooster, started to squawk continuously, loudly, and hysterically. Then they came running out of the house to see the smoke pouring from the bottom of the barn doors. Tom's wife came out onto the porch wiping her hands on her apron, fretting, “Oh, dear. Oh, my.”

“Becca!” shouted Tom over his shoulder, “Call 911!” She ran back into the house but was there less than five minutes before she came back out onto the porch.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I perched on the branch where I had my nest of tiny owlets. Thank God we would be safe there, I thought, drawing the two babies into the protection of my wing.

Lazy Meadows Farm was usually just that. Day after day, Tom and Chuck got up at the break of dawn to milk and feed the cows and feed the sheep, chickens, and Sugarcube. Vegetables and hay were harvested in their seasons. The sheep were shorn and part of the wool sold while Becca kept some to spin and knit the couple's winter necessities.

On this evening, the farm was anything but lazy. Tom and Chuck worked feverishly to get the animals out of the barn. Animals ran about wildly in the pasture. At a loss about what else she might do, Becca paced on the porch, wringing her hands and repeating, “Oh, dear. Oh, my.”

Under normal circumstances, a car ride between the farm and town was a good twenty-five minutes. Only 12 minutes after Becca's 911 call, the sound of sirens was heard growing quickly louder until they wound down as the trucks parked, and the firefighters raced about to hook up the hoses and stretch them toward the fire. Water shot from the trucks into the hoses and onto the flames. Acrid smoke and steam billowed upward as the fire was extinguished.

I watched the animals still skittish and restless, milling about in the barn yard. As sad as it was, I would be lying if I said it wasn't a little funny watching the chickens flap in short awkward bursts of vain efforts to fly. The farmer and his helper worked persistently to catch each animal, speaking in low comforting tones as they gathered them into the barn, where the damage limited to some hay and to some of the wood which made up the animals pens. Seeing that it wasn't cold or raining, the men decided to leave Sugarcube and the cows in the pasture.

“Coffee's hot!” Becca hollered out to the men, and slowly they made their way to the house. Their night's sleep had been interrupted and tomorrow morning's chore time would come fast.

I settled back into my nest with the owlets, sheltering them in my wings, snuggling them close for a little while extra than I normally would. It was time for the night's hunt, but loving my babies seemed more important for the moment.