Bill and I were talking today about one of the coldest Christmases we could remember. It was 1985 and we had been in our house just a few months. It was about 4 AM and I heard Bill urgently telling me to wake up. The house was filling with black smoke, and, although we saw no fire, we figured we better call the fire department. This was before cell phones, so we had to call 911 from our house phone. I grabbed a coat to wear over my pajamas and we went out in the front yard to wait for the fire truck. It was 9 degrees that morning. Fortunately, the problem was a (only) central heating malfunction. No fire, but also no heat!
I am sure that the neighbors were probably not happy to have their Christmas sleep so rudely interrupted! No one ever complained, that I recall anyway.
After the house had aired out for a while, we went in, put on some warm clothes, and headed down to Hazlehurst, to my grandmother's house. We were cold and tired, but thankful that our house, albeit smoky smelling, was OK.
I have had several friends lose homes to fires. I feel for them. I remember those few, heart stopping minutes in 1985, when I thought we might be among them. And, every Christmas, I pause to give thanks that we were not.
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