Confronted with a force of nature

There is a difference between knowing something and feeling it in your gut.

 

The other morning, I was volunteering at Farmamerica. This time of year, the organization offers field trips to students from area schools. Students from various communities arrive, are introduced to the facility and its offerings, and are divided into groups to visit the various locations in a rotation that gives them about half an hour at each site.

 

It’s a delightful opportunity for the children, many of whom don’t even realize that chickens not only lay eggs, they are capable of brooding and hatching them. Children are accompanied by a strong mix of chaperones and a lot of energy, so the large Farmamerica campus is a great choice for some good old-fashioned learning combined with exercise and fresh air.

 

Volunteers staff the different sites, supervising and guiding as children learn about everything from elements of agriculture that touch their everyday lives to schoolyard games played during recess at the one-room school buildings.

 

My job for the day was guiding kids through the 1850s farmstead, where they would get a look at the way settlers’ lifestyles developed from the time they arrived to the time they were established enough to build a “mansion” of a cabin complete with glass windows.

 

I had been the interpreter on the site before, but because it had been awhile, I parked my car among the trees, opened the windows in anticipation of the 80-some degree day ahead, and began perusing the information so my narratives would be as accurate as possible.

 

I realized I smelled smoke and wondered idly why that might be.

 

A moment later I looked up from the papers and realized I was surrounded by a haze of smoke so thick I could barely see past the trees I was parked among; it became obvious I should see what was happening.

 

When my line of sight brought the site’s “smoke shack” into view, the small structure was more than living up to its name. Thick smoke was pouring out of every opening and being pushed rapidly northward by the day’s strong wind.

 

I had been given a handheld radio “just in case of emergency.” Since what I saw before me clearly qualified, I pressed the button and asked “Can anyone hear me?” The question was mostly to make sure I was pressing the right button.

 

I then proceeded to describe what I saw in front of me. I have very strong recollection of saying the words, “I don’t see any flames yet, but there’s definitely a fire inside,” mostly because the flames appeared seconds later, stabbing out from the space above the loosely-hung door.

 

The radio conversation among staff included numerous requests and instructions, including getting some fire extinguishers to the site and, of course, calling 9-1-1.

 

For me, still temporarily alone at the location, there was only the knowledge there was nothing I could do.

 

What I saw in front of me made it clear that, whether it burned to ashes or was extinguished in short order, the structure would need to be replaced. The thing to watch for was the safety of the barn, probably 200 feet or more away, but in line with the ferocious wind.

 

Staff members arrived bringing the fire extinguishers; they slowed the fire somewhat, but had no hope of putting it out. My understanding of the extinguishers changed then and there—it became clear they would be very useful to put out a fire just getting its start, but against the robust flames pouring from the small building, they were of little help.

 

Even with the wind carrying the heat northward, all of us now waiting for the fire department—whose sirens we could hear approaching—had to step repeatedly backward.

 

Standing there among the 1850s buildings, I imagined how hopeless it would have been to a pioneer family to see those same flames. Inside, some of their food being preserved for the winter was being destroyed. Outside, any efforts to fetch and throw enough water would be utterly futile. Around them, they had to worry for the other structures and whether the fire would spread.

 

I have always had great respect for the resilience and determination our early pioneers showed when they came to the wide open spaces to establish a new home for themselves and their families. My regard grew as I recognized the utter helplessness we humans face when confronted by a true force of nature.

 

Fortunately, the Waseca Fire Department arrived, extinguished the fire, and ensured it would not reignite. The distances between the buildings kept the fire from spreading. Completely counter to what one might have expected, I was able to lead the scheduled tours of the site that day with surprisingly little disruption.

 

But as for me, I had faced a demon and known I had no power against it. I had received a visceral reminder of how valuable the services are which have been made possible by the society which grew from the resilience and determination of our pioneers.

 

There is a difference between “knowing” something and feeling it in your gut.