The Christmas Train Wreck

Chuck and I could only look at each other as the fire department left. Sandy should have read the directions, but neither Chuck nor I paid enough attention to watch what she was doing.

Aunt Sandy was the last one to arrive that Christmas Day. She was such a well-meaning person that you just had to love her. We always reasoned that only a frame that large could hold a heart that big. You’d think she was a great cook, but truth was, she couldn’t make a frozen pizza much less a soufflé. Every year she wanted to help in the kitchen. More than one meal was barely saved from a disastrous outcome. But no one could blame her, not even Uncle Harold and Aunt Eileen. And if anyone was looking to place blame for things gone wrong, it was them.

Aunt Sandy’s cheerful smile and jolly laugh made you think that Mrs. Claus herself was visiting for Christmas. Chuck and I both loved to see that old Lincoln pull into the driveway during the holidays. We knew the cookies she brought were bought at the bakery down the street, but that didn’t matter. What mattered is that she was always there for everyone in the family. She was always a shoulder to lean on, and an ear to bend when things got tough. And her smile could bring warmth to the coldest of days and coldest of hearts.

As we started dinner, of course, Aunt Sandy bobbled into the kitchen. I smiled to myself, feeling quite smart. I’d left the potato peeling until last. That way, if Sandy wanted to help, she could do something that didn’t involve the stove – or anything that was incredibly sharp. She couldn’t do much damage with a potato peeler, I’d reasoned.

“If it’s okay with you ladies, I think I’d rather help the kids put their toys together in the living room, rather than help you cook this year. With Neal gone and all….”

Neal was my cousin. He could build anything or fix any broken gizmo or gadget. Unfortunately, the war had called him away. We gladly agreed that Aunt Sandy should help the kids… with Neal gone and all, of course. Deep down I knew she understood that she was more of a hindrance than a help in the kitchen, but she was so eager to please and to be involved that she would muddle her way through whatever task was given to her – even if it meant asking for help five times.

So, off Aunt Sandy went to the living room. It took almost an hour before I smelled the faint odor of smoke. I thought the pie filling from the pie had dripped onto the bottom of the oven. It would burn off and the smell would go away.
It wasn’t until I heard the hushed, excited voices from the living room that I knew something was wrong. As I went to check it out, the smoke alarm went off. Grandpa woke from a dead sleep in the recliner and yelled for someone to call the fire department as I made it to the living room. The tree was smoldering and Uncle Harold was chastising Aunt Sandy for trying to put out an electrical fire with water.

Electrical fire? I grabbed the smallest of the children and yelled for everyone to come out of the kitchen and get the kids to safety. Chuck was right behind me grabbing as many snow suits, hats and mittens as he could carry.

The insurance man had said we got a better deal on our house insurance due to the proximity of our house to the fire department, and we soon found out why. Within five minutes the trucks rolled up. There were nineteen of us in all standing outside, knowing we’d see the flames lapping at the eves of the roof at any moment. Still no one really knew what started it.

The fire department was only inside a short time when the man who was obviously in charge came to find Chuck and me. We sat with our son Jamie, our daughter Lynn, a few of the smaller children, in our minivan across the street. Chuck somehow had the presence of mind to grab the car keys in the mêlée.

As we were talking to the fireman, Aunt Sally ambled over, her head down and tears running down her face.

“It’s my fault,” she sobbed.

“What do you mean it’s your fault, Aunt Sandy? It can’t possibly be. The tree or the lights must have been defective or something.”

“The kids wanted to see the train go through a snow bank.” She hid her face in her hands. It was obvious she knew something we didn’t.

“And what was the snow made of, Ma’am?” The fire fighter’s attention now turned toward her.

“I used some of the cotton snow from under the tree and laid it across the tracks. It started to smolder. I blew on it to try to put it out. I tossed it aside, but it landed on the tree skirt. Then that started on fire. I tried to throw water on it, but…. But….” Her words turned to unintelligible blubbering.

“That explains a lot,” the man interrupted.

Apparently the fake snow cover had arced across the play rail road tracks under the tree and started the fire. Luckily our fake tree was fire resistant, the fire fighter told us. That kept anything from really catching on fire. There was some damage to the carpet and the tree skirt, but once the unplugged the train, they were able to put the fire out without causing any more destruction by simply smothering it. He said there was minor smoke damage, but nothing that should hamper our holiday celebration too much.

If only Aunt Sandy would have read the directions on that train set. If only she’d known that the track was live. If only.

“Hey!” Grandpa yelled from the front steps. “The kitchen timer is going off! Don’t burn that pie, you women!”
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