Contender
02-16-2001, 12:03 PM
And now the story:
You know how you can tell a real, no-kidding, true story? It always starts with, "this ain't no bullsh*t..." [g]
This really happened though, so LEARN you neophytes, from your wiser elder:
Back in '90, I was too cheap to buy anything except the molds for my handgun casting. So, I used a one-burner gasoline camp stove and an old cast iron frying pan my ex had apparently overlooked as she was cleaning out my house from the divorce. I set up my hi-tech lead melting and casting rig on my wooden workbench, with plenty (a gallon) of extra Coleman fuel real handy, just in case I needed to refill the tank. I had just lit the stove when I heard the dryer buzz, indicating my clothes were dry.
[Sidenote, important to all lead casters -- never let clothes sit in a cold dryer, they wrinkle badly. I was a VERY responsible new bachelor, not about to let anyone see me in wrinkled clothes.]
So, I left the just-lit gas stove, and went to take my clothes upstairs to hang, wrinkle-free. When I returned to the workbench, flames from the stove were licking the ceiling. Being a quick thinker (now, stop laughing!), I reached to flip the lid down over the stove to keep from damaging the ceiling further, without burning myself. As an extremely coordinated person (what did I tell you about that laughter?), instead of flipping the lid down, I managed to knock the stove over. Gas that had leaked into the base of the stove then spilled onto my wooden workbench, and onto the rags that I kept handy for what previously seemed to be important reasons.
Avoiding pain at this point seemed more important than my personal sense of valor (and this choice was encouraged by the fact that the flames now covered the entire workbench, and were making a dramatic 90-degree turn at the ceiling), I ran back upstairs, ignoring my wrinkle-free clothes, to get the fire extinguisher. As I ran back down the stairs, I heard a "kwoosh!" Upon opening the door to the shop, my agile mental processes (I told you to stop that!) concluded that the Coleman fuel was no longer in the one-gallon container where it belonged, but instead was spread over a rather large area. A rather well illuminated large area, in fact.
Take my word for it, friends. Those fire extinguishers that are about the size of two coke cans don't have much of an impact on a room full of burning Coleman fuel, even when sprayed through a tiny crack in a burning door.
Once again, my quick wits (do I have to repeat myself? Stop laughing!) came into play. I went directly to the electrical power panel to chop power and prevent a rapidly spreading electrical fire. I then ran outside (did I mention this was in January, almost exactly 11 years ago?), grabbed the garden hose, turned the faucet on full, and ran around the outside of the house to the other shop door to fight the fire. As I opened the nozzle on the hose, I saw that the door where I had previously stood had burned completely through. The water did a great job for about 30 seconds, then like a fading erection, limped to a dribble. When I had cut off the electricity, I had also cut off my water pump in the well. And the flames now blocked the path to the power panel.
For the first time in my life, I decided that maybe I should call the fire department. Despite the three feet of snow on the ground, I managed to make Olympic time to my neighbor's house, about 300 yards away. As I beat on his door, I could see him on the phone, holding his hand up to me, indicating I should be patient while he finished his conversation. I carefully considered his suggestion, then decided not to be patient. Lucky for me, his wife heard my calm requests to call 911. Actually, I think almost everybody in the Western United States heard my calm request.
Returning to my house (well, it still looked like a house, and was well-lit despite the darkness of the night), I decided to get what I could, while I could. First, tax records. [Now, is that a commentary on our times, or what?] Next, guns. [Of course.] As I was getting the guns out of the house, a very bossy fireman ordered me out of the house. I told him what I thought of his attitude, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the window; I was coughing too hard to fight very much. Besides, I didn't want him to get TOO mad. I sort of needed his help.
Anyway, we started pulling hoses from his pickup-size fire truck up the hill to the house. [I learned something that night: flat firehose is much easier to carry uphill than round firehose.] We started spraying the fire, and I thought I looked pretty cool, leaning against the pressure of the hose. Just as it looked like we had started doing some good, the truck ran out of water. This was now a familiar experience for me, so I recognized the symptoms of no water right away.
Did I mention that this happened during a snowstorm? Well, anyway, I heard on the fireman's radio that the first real firetruck to the scene had slid on some ice while making the turn onto the only road to my house, was stuck, and had blocked the road. I asked the fireman if he had any marshmellows. He didn't, so we just warmed our hands against the cheery flames that were a veritable beacon in the night, reflecting against the snow and low clouds. I would estimate the flames were about 50 feet high at this point.
After the fireman and I had gotten real cozy in the warmth, and after meeting several neighbors I'd never met, some from a couple of miles away, the firetrucks roared up heroically, and the volunteer firemen (one girl, so firepeople) went to their posts and waited for instructions, just like they'd practiced. When the worst of the flames died down, a cameraman from the local TV station walked up, kleig lights blairing, and asked me, "would you mind telling us what happened?" As cheerfully as I could (which wasn't very), I answered, "yes." He went somewhere else.
They saved two bedrooms. It was all smoke and heat damaged, of course, but the two bedrooms made a nice reference point for what used to be a house.
So, my neophyte lead casters, there is a moral to the story: let the clothes wrinkle.
grumble
ps-- the next day, as I kicked through the ashes, I went into the bedroom where I had hung the clothes. They were scorched and ruined, but wrinkle-free.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know how you can tell a real, no-kidding, true story? It always starts with, "this ain't no bullsh*t..." [g]
This really happened though, so LEARN you neophytes, from your wiser elder:
Back in '90, I was too cheap to buy anything except the molds for my handgun casting. So, I used a one-burner gasoline camp stove and an old cast iron frying pan my ex had apparently overlooked as she was cleaning out my house from the divorce. I set up my hi-tech lead melting and casting rig on my wooden workbench, with plenty (a gallon) of extra Coleman fuel real handy, just in case I needed to refill the tank. I had just lit the stove when I heard the dryer buzz, indicating my clothes were dry.
[Sidenote, important to all lead casters -- never let clothes sit in a cold dryer, they wrinkle badly. I was a VERY responsible new bachelor, not about to let anyone see me in wrinkled clothes.]
So, I left the just-lit gas stove, and went to take my clothes upstairs to hang, wrinkle-free. When I returned to the workbench, flames from the stove were licking the ceiling. Being a quick thinker (now, stop laughing!), I reached to flip the lid down over the stove to keep from damaging the ceiling further, without burning myself. As an extremely coordinated person (what did I tell you about that laughter?), instead of flipping the lid down, I managed to knock the stove over. Gas that had leaked into the base of the stove then spilled onto my wooden workbench, and onto the rags that I kept handy for what previously seemed to be important reasons.
Avoiding pain at this point seemed more important than my personal sense of valor (and this choice was encouraged by the fact that the flames now covered the entire workbench, and were making a dramatic 90-degree turn at the ceiling), I ran back upstairs, ignoring my wrinkle-free clothes, to get the fire extinguisher. As I ran back down the stairs, I heard a "kwoosh!" Upon opening the door to the shop, my agile mental processes (I told you to stop that!) concluded that the Coleman fuel was no longer in the one-gallon container where it belonged, but instead was spread over a rather large area. A rather well illuminated large area, in fact.
Take my word for it, friends. Those fire extinguishers that are about the size of two coke cans don't have much of an impact on a room full of burning Coleman fuel, even when sprayed through a tiny crack in a burning door.
Once again, my quick wits (do I have to repeat myself? Stop laughing!) came into play. I went directly to the electrical power panel to chop power and prevent a rapidly spreading electrical fire. I then ran outside (did I mention this was in January, almost exactly 11 years ago?), grabbed the garden hose, turned the faucet on full, and ran around the outside of the house to the other shop door to fight the fire. As I opened the nozzle on the hose, I saw that the door where I had previously stood had burned completely through. The water did a great job for about 30 seconds, then like a fading erection, limped to a dribble. When I had cut off the electricity, I had also cut off my water pump in the well. And the flames now blocked the path to the power panel.
For the first time in my life, I decided that maybe I should call the fire department. Despite the three feet of snow on the ground, I managed to make Olympic time to my neighbor's house, about 300 yards away. As I beat on his door, I could see him on the phone, holding his hand up to me, indicating I should be patient while he finished his conversation. I carefully considered his suggestion, then decided not to be patient. Lucky for me, his wife heard my calm requests to call 911. Actually, I think almost everybody in the Western United States heard my calm request.
Returning to my house (well, it still looked like a house, and was well-lit despite the darkness of the night), I decided to get what I could, while I could. First, tax records. [Now, is that a commentary on our times, or what?] Next, guns. [Of course.] As I was getting the guns out of the house, a very bossy fireman ordered me out of the house. I told him what I thought of his attitude, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the window; I was coughing too hard to fight very much. Besides, I didn't want him to get TOO mad. I sort of needed his help.
Anyway, we started pulling hoses from his pickup-size fire truck up the hill to the house. [I learned something that night: flat firehose is much easier to carry uphill than round firehose.] We started spraying the fire, and I thought I looked pretty cool, leaning against the pressure of the hose. Just as it looked like we had started doing some good, the truck ran out of water. This was now a familiar experience for me, so I recognized the symptoms of no water right away.
Did I mention that this happened during a snowstorm? Well, anyway, I heard on the fireman's radio that the first real firetruck to the scene had slid on some ice while making the turn onto the only road to my house, was stuck, and had blocked the road. I asked the fireman if he had any marshmellows. He didn't, so we just warmed our hands against the cheery flames that were a veritable beacon in the night, reflecting against the snow and low clouds. I would estimate the flames were about 50 feet high at this point.
After the fireman and I had gotten real cozy in the warmth, and after meeting several neighbors I'd never met, some from a couple of miles away, the firetrucks roared up heroically, and the volunteer firemen (one girl, so firepeople) went to their posts and waited for instructions, just like they'd practiced. When the worst of the flames died down, a cameraman from the local TV station walked up, kleig lights blairing, and asked me, "would you mind telling us what happened?" As cheerfully as I could (which wasn't very), I answered, "yes." He went somewhere else.
They saved two bedrooms. It was all smoke and heat damaged, of course, but the two bedrooms made a nice reference point for what used to be a house.
So, my neophyte lead casters, there is a moral to the story: let the clothes wrinkle.
grumble
ps-- the next day, as I kicked through the ashes, I went into the bedroom where I had hung the clothes. They were scorched and ruined, but wrinkle-free.
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