MPA/MPS e-Bulletin

EDITORS: The following column is a sample by MPA associate member Emily Jones, retired lifestyles editor for the Starkville Daily News, who is now syndicating her work. For more samples or to inquire further about the column, contact Jones by emailing e_bjones@yahoo.com or call 662-324-6182.

By Emily Jones

Finally!  My Christmas dinner came off without a hitch, unless you consider a visit by two engines and the Starkville Fire Department a small glitch in an otherwise perfect celebration.

After years of trying to make my cornbread dressing taste like my grandmother’s, I think I got it right.  But it was with great effort since I had no oven.  On Sunday before Christmas I rushed home after church to  begin the final approach to Christmas dinner for eleven adults and four canine members of my extended family.

Luckily I had made my cornbread in the wee hours and it sat waiting to be crumbled. I heated up the broiler to toast some biscuits to add to the dressing and sat down with my checklist to monitor my progress.  Then what to my wondering eyes should appear but a miniature flash from some kind of light show playing in my oven.  I rushed to open the door to see what was the matter, when the flash became a ball of fire that reminded me of the space shuttle re-entering the atmosphere.

I immediately cut off the oven, but the fire continued to rage as if it didn’t know the power was disconnected.  I ran two circles around the kitchen before deciding to do something drastic.

I don’t own a fire extinguisher (shame on me), so I did the next best thing - I dialed 911.  I calmly told the dispatcher that my oven was fully engulfed in flames, but begged her not to send the fire trucks – just a firefighter or two to help me get it under control. Since I’m considered bit of a flake in my community, I didn’t need any fire trucks parked at my house on Sunday morning to illicit wild speculation about what I was up to now!

I waited helplessly while my oven sputtered and proceeded to burn to smithereens. Within three minutes I heard the approaching sirens.  Two huge fire engines careened to a halt at my back door and no less than eight fire fighters rushed past me dragging hoses.  They were decked out in their inferno gear complete with hoodie things like Buzz Aldrin wore when he walked on the  moon.

The man in charge demanded where the fuse box was located.  Huh?  I wasn’t sure, but I thought it was in a back  bedroom that once served as the kitchen.  We couldn’t get to it because my son’s monster dog kennel was blocking the hallway.  That meant we had to circle around the front of the house through my bedroom where, to my embarrassment, the bed had not been made!  I stopped to explain that I ALWAYS made my bed, but…the man in charge cut me off mid-sentence.

“The fuse box?” he gently reminded me.

Oh yeah, the fire in the kitchen.  I had forgotten all about it in my embarrassment.  By the time we reached the room where I thought the fuse box was located, we couldn’t find it.  Its  ugliness was concealed by a beautiful mirror.  They jerked it down and discovered nothing was labeled, so they had to disable the entire circuit panel to stop  the juice flowing. (Darn, I thought.  Now I’m going to have to reset all my clocks.)

By this time the fire had finally burned itself out leaving pitifully charred and dangling elements plus a tell-tale black ring around my snow-white self-cleaning oven. A small traffic jam was occurring outside as alarmed friends and neighbors rushed to see what all the commotion was about.

The firemen pulled off their hoods and I was struck by how cute they all were.  My gosh!  I should have done this before.  They assured me I had done the right thing to call them, and I needed to contact my repair man before restoring the power.

I immediately began rethinking my Christmas dinner.  If it couldn’t be microwaved or prepared in the crock pot, I would have to send out for Chinese.

Everything turned out fine.  My relatives stepped up and volunteered to bring casseroles and the dressing could be finished in the crock pot.  My son had already volunteered to do the turkey.  I  didn’t have to do a thing.  This turned out to be my most leisurely Christmas ever.  That little fire was worth every penny it cost me.

And, best of all, I received several fire extinguishers for Christmas.  Now, if I can just figure out how to use them….

Emily Jones is a columnist and retired journalist who resides in Starkville, Mississippi. Contact her at e_bjones@yahoo.com.