Where There's Smoke...
When my daughter Catherine, was in elementary school, she once brought home some information about fire safety. She was supposed to nag us to change the batteries in our smoke alarms. I can’t stress enough how important this is. Did you know that if you let the batteries die, the smoke alarm will go off and not stop until it gets new batteries? We did not know this.
At the time we thought we had an efficient system for dealing with smoke and alarms. It went like this: once every five meals or so, the billowing smoke from our oven would set off the alarm. In other words, everything was fine and there was no need for any drastic action such as cleaning the oven yet. The instant the alarm went off, we would spring into action like the well-practiced crisis team that we were. I would run to the oven, turn on fan, look through the fog to see whether dinner was done and slam the oven door shut. Meanwhile, Catherine would race around the house flinging open all the doors. My husband Dave, being the tallest, would grab a large stuffed pig creatively named “Fire Pig,” leap on a chair and cram it up around the smoke alarm to deaden the noise and prevent even more hearing loss than we all already suffered. In a few minutes, the air would clear enough that the shrieking stopped. Then, we’d express our amazement that the dumb alarm had gone off again for no good reason. This was the routine until the alarm went off several times per meal and the neighbors sent threats again. Then we knew it was time to clean the oven. It was a simple, but effective system.
But very, very early one morning we were all jolted awake by the ALAAAAAAAAARM!!!!!
“Shhh, Dave” I grumbled rolling over.
“That’s the fire alarm! Get up!”
“Oh Geez, not again, not now.”
I got up to find that Catherine had already dealt with the problem by opening all the doors and going back to bed. I found her huddled up with the blankets over her ears.
“Come on honey, you need to get up.”
“Turn the oven off Mommy.”
“It’s not the oven this time, you need to get up.”
Moaning and whining, but no more so than myself, she arose. Dave, meanwhile, had stumped around the house and was satisfied that there was no fire, which was a shame because the insurance was worth much more than our stuff. Meanwhile, the ALAAAAAAAAARM!!!! Was still blaring away.
“How do we turn it off??? I screeched.
“I don’t know! This isn’t working!” he yelled back, furiously pushing the smoke alarm button with a broom handle.
We had a real problem, all of our ceilings were high, and we didn’t have a tall ladder. Even so he finally managed to dismantle the alarm in the hallway. This had no effect whatsoever. We had no choice, or if we did, we were too rattled to think of other options. The ALARM had been going off now for at least half an hour. We called the fire department. We told them there wasn’t a fire, but five firemen came tearing up the street anyway. Very efficiently, they checked out the house.
“It’s ok! There is no fire!” they shouted.
“We know! That’s what we told the dispatcher. It’s the alarm! Can you get it turned off? Dave yelled.
They stared.
“Please?” I hollered meekly.
Muttering something under their breaths, they got the ALARM turned off, gave us a brief lecture on changing the batteries and left. Apparently flaming faces don’t count as an emergency.
So be sure to keep those alarms in good working order. And never, in a wild fit of hysteria, take your husband’s good tennis racket and attempt to whack it manually off the ceiling.
At the time we thought we had an efficient system for dealing with smoke and alarms. It went like this: once every five meals or so, the billowing smoke from our oven would set off the alarm. In other words, everything was fine and there was no need for any drastic action such as cleaning the oven yet. The instant the alarm went off, we would spring into action like the well-practiced crisis team that we were. I would run to the oven, turn on fan, look through the fog to see whether dinner was done and slam the oven door shut. Meanwhile, Catherine would race around the house flinging open all the doors. My husband Dave, being the tallest, would grab a large stuffed pig creatively named “Fire Pig,” leap on a chair and cram it up around the smoke alarm to deaden the noise and prevent even more hearing loss than we all already suffered. In a few minutes, the air would clear enough that the shrieking stopped. Then, we’d express our amazement that the dumb alarm had gone off again for no good reason. This was the routine until the alarm went off several times per meal and the neighbors sent threats again. Then we knew it was time to clean the oven. It was a simple, but effective system.
But very, very early one morning we were all jolted awake by the ALAAAAAAAAARM!!!!!
“Shhh, Dave” I grumbled rolling over.
“That’s the fire alarm! Get up!”
“Oh Geez, not again, not now.”
I got up to find that Catherine had already dealt with the problem by opening all the doors and going back to bed. I found her huddled up with the blankets over her ears.
“Come on honey, you need to get up.”
“Turn the oven off Mommy.”
“It’s not the oven this time, you need to get up.”
Moaning and whining, but no more so than myself, she arose. Dave, meanwhile, had stumped around the house and was satisfied that there was no fire, which was a shame because the insurance was worth much more than our stuff. Meanwhile, the ALAAAAAAAAARM!!!! Was still blaring away.
“How do we turn it off??? I screeched.
“I don’t know! This isn’t working!” he yelled back, furiously pushing the smoke alarm button with a broom handle.
We had a real problem, all of our ceilings were high, and we didn’t have a tall ladder. Even so he finally managed to dismantle the alarm in the hallway. This had no effect whatsoever. We had no choice, or if we did, we were too rattled to think of other options. The ALARM had been going off now for at least half an hour. We called the fire department. We told them there wasn’t a fire, but five firemen came tearing up the street anyway. Very efficiently, they checked out the house.
“It’s ok! There is no fire!” they shouted.
“We know! That’s what we told the dispatcher. It’s the alarm! Can you get it turned off? Dave yelled.
They stared.
“Please?” I hollered meekly.
Muttering something under their breaths, they got the ALARM turned off, gave us a brief lecture on changing the batteries and left. Apparently flaming faces don’t count as an emergency.
So be sure to keep those alarms in good working order. And never, in a wild fit of hysteria, take your husband’s good tennis racket and attempt to whack it manually off the ceiling.
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