The Great Fire of '95 (...or thereabouts)

I'm feeling in a bit of a quirky mood, today, and it occurs to me that I should take the occasion to write about The Great Fire. "Great Fire," you say? "Would that be the Great Chicago Fire?" No, no, that would be the Great-Kitchen-Fire-Caused-By-Overheated-Cooking-Fat fire. There's a difference. Yes, today I've decided to write about something with which none of my readers will have any semblance of familiarity. But hey, Author's License, right? Every once in awhile, Midnight must indulge.





So, let me set this up for you: It was early evening some 10 or 11 years ago at the family homestead (read "house"). My brother had dropped by for a visit and was downstairs somewhere while I was upstairs in the bathroom - looking in the mirror while getting ready for something or other. All of the sudden I heard a loud commotion downstairs: raised voices, rapidly approaching and retreating footsteps, the general sounds that one only hears when something-not-quite-right either has occurred, is occurring, or will be occurring momentarily. I flew downstairs to determine just how rapidly my heart should be beating, and quickly traced Commotion Ground Zero to the kitchen area. Stopping short as soon as I rounded the corner, I at last saw the cause of the melee: There, in front of me, were flames shooting upward from the stove - licking the cabinet and microwave oven above them. Said microwave was emitting a loud lowish-pitched moan - something akin to what you might expect to hear emanating from the gullet of a wounded water buffalo. More chaotic than this, though, was the sight of various and sundry members of my family, exhibiting unexpected reactions to the calamity: Dad had dashed into a nearby storage closet where we kept a fire extinguisher handy, and was holding the Red Avenger like a fearless hunter with his trusty weapon...but he couldn't figure out how to make it fire. Meanwhile, my brother - having learned from countless childhood classroom instruction the basics of Stop, Drop, and Roll, was crouched on all fours - exiting the immediate smoke-filled vicinity as best he could in the awkward position. Mom was there as well, but in the excitement I couldn't hear clearly what she was saying or see what she was doing. As all of this was going on, my mind blanked for a second, but then I remembered that there was a second fire extinguisher in the basement. Finally given something to focus on, I ran downstairs, retrieved the extinguisher, and brought it back to the site of the still-raging fire. Quickly, I adopted the same fearless hunter stance that Dad had employed. With the same result. In a flash, Dad looked over at me - exasperated - when he realized that I was apparently having no more luck with my extinguisher than he was having with his. "Well, how do you work this thing?!" he asked, annoyed and breathless.
"I don't know." I replied. "I'm pressing the trigger but it's not going down."
"You mean we've got 9 degrees in this house and no one knows how to work this thing?!" he asked, incredulous. This was too much. Mom, Dad, my brother, and I all burst out laughing. The fire would have to wait.

After finally regaining some measure of self-control, I tried to focus once again, finally thinking disgustedly to myself that I was going to have to read the blasted fire extinguisher directions (keeping in mind, here, that the geek aversion to reading any directions of any kind is legend). So, I turned the extinguisher around such that the affixed instructions were facing me (hey, we were nothing if not prepared. Even though we had no idea what the colorful metaphor we were doing) and began to read.

It took me a second to absorb the step-by-steps in the surrounding chaos, but I was finally able to make heads and tails of them. Carefully executing the instructions, I disengaged the trigger lock, pointed the extinguisher at the fire and squeezed. White foam spewed from the canister, and...oh...I felt the power. I was Conan. I was Xena. Hear me roar. Thrilled with the immediate death of the flames that were hit with the foam, I aimed the nozzle at anything that was red, hot, and sparkly - and probably at several things that weren't. All too soon (I was having fun at this point), it was over. The fire was out, and the kitchen was bathed in foam.

And then the fire trucks arrived.

After the adrenaline rush from the excitement exited unceremoniously from within to without, I suddenly came to the realization that all of the smoke that I had inhaled prior to my Conanic conversion was starting to take a little bit of a toll. Without the benefit of the adrenaline (which does wonders for those - like myself - who grew up with asthma), the reality of the situation was really beginning to kick in. And my lungs were the ones getting kicked. Not wanting to take any chances, Dad decided to run me over to the ER while Mom and my brother stayed behind with the firefighters.






In the hospital, the attending nurse did what I suppose they usually do in such cases: drew blood in order to take a gas content analysis. Fortunately, everything came back fine, and I just ended up taking a little something for the asthma. Then it was back to the homestead again.

There, the kitchen was sorry and damp - doused as it had been by the foam. The remains of the microwave were charred and cave-like, but I found myself glad that at least the annoying thing wasn't screaming anymore. In time the microwave was replaced, the damaged cabinets were repaired, and the kitchen gleamed again as if nothing had ever happened. I found out later that the fire had started in a pan where hot oil had been left on the stove for just a tad too long.

But all was well that ended well, and I must say that once the initial chaos, panic, and sheer annoyance (Dad) was over, it did make for a great story. I put it in my Christmas letter that year.






So! Obviously, none of you can really contribute to the question: "Where were you during the Great-Kitchen-Fire-Caused-By-Overheated-Cooking-Fat fire?", so we'll have to improvise. Do any of you have recollection of somewhat maniacal family events that seemed ominous at first, but that - looking back - just melded into a good story? Send us your thoughts. We'll keep you posted.

The Day that John Lennon Died

Ok, before I start, I need to pre-exonerate myself by stating that this is probably one of the most embarrassing posts that I will submit (if not the most embarrassing).

Relief.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll begin:



On December 8, 1980, John Lennon was shot and killed by Mark David Chapman, a sometime "fan" who was later given 20 years to life for his crime. On that day, I remember seeing images on the family room television - though to this day I honestly couldn't tell you whether those images were created by what my eyes saw on the screen, or by what my mind created from subsequent verbal accounts. The newscasters gave voice to the scenes, stating mournfully that John Lennon had been assassinated.

And my response was: "John Lennon? Who's he?" Yeah. So now you understand why I began by saying that this would be an embarrassing post. I honestly did not know who John Lennon was. I'd never heard his name. I'd never seen his face. I was completely ignorant. And my age at the time was no excuse: Although I hadn't yet been born when the Beatles first came to America, in ensuing years I was old enough to know who they were, and to have known and enjoyed some of their songs. Indeed, if someone had said that Paul McCartney had been shot, I would have been affected with the same sense of shock as everyone else in the world. But John Lennon? Ringo Starr? George Harrison? I knew who none of them were. To me, at the time, the Beatles consisted of Paul and some other band members - and I honestly cannot say why. Needless to say, when I found out who John Lennon was, I did experience shock and sadness: partially at the fact that a member of the Beatles had died, and just as partially at the fact that I had not known who he was.



On that day and for a long time afterward, I did not experience an overwhelming desire to research the band that I obviously knew so little about (I didn't even know how many band members there were). Although I had heard their music from childhood, my exposure to it was not "in the home". Sometimes I heard it in school, sometimes I heard it in Muzak mall speakers blaring overhead, but it was not the kind of music that I or my brother listened to as kids, and my parents had no real affinity for it, either. And so, as is always the case in this life, you only know what you know. Fortunately, however, I am happy to say that years later, I populated my dearth of Beatles knowledge. In 1995, ABC aired a mini-series documentary called "The Beatles Anthology", and I surprised myself by watching quite avidly. In those three nights, I absorbed Beatles A-Z - learning about how the band was founded, who it consisted of (finally!), and - most importantly - what they sang. The latter was an eye-opener to me, because it shattered many of the myths that had built up in my mind over a lifetime of hearing Beatles music and never knowing that they were the voices behind the songs (example: contrary to my initial belief, the version of "Twist and Shout" heard during the parade scene in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" was not sung by Matthew Broderick). After watching the Anthology, I even went through something of a Beatles phase - happening to catch "Hard Day's Night" on PBS and afterward developing a little bit of a crush on Ringo Starr. So, it may have taken me awhile, but the import of John Lennon's death finally hit home for me some 15 years after it happened. The senselessness of it, the tragedy of a life cut so short, the realization of the sheer magnitude of music that he had produced - I finally understood now why so many fans had poured out their grief at the site of John Lennon's death so many years before. But in a way I must say that I felt cheated. My ignorance in 1980 prevented me from fully understanding what had happened when it happened, and perhaps in some small way that knowledge is what fuels my now avid consumption of all things news and current events. Perhaps I never again want to find myself the only person who looks around - dazed - asking "what happened?"



So help me out, here. My bet is that if you were at least a teenager in 1980, you remember the day that John Lennon died: where you were, what you were doing, how you felt. Send us your story. We'll keep you posted.

A Little Levity: What do they Really Talk About in Meetings?

Minutes 2 Midnight generally deals with fairly heavy fare, so it makes sense to carve out a little corner where lighter meals are served. This is the first entry of an ongoing "just for fun" section where you'll find some fun stuff to explore (well...I think it's fun, anway). Check out the "Just For Fun" links at the top of the sidebar for more.





If you're employed in Corporate America, you've probably been forced to attend the odd meeting from time to time. Ever find yourself sitting in your chair - fuming because you have a wad of work to do but you're stuck in a "productivity" meeting? Ever find yourself in a room with too many people and too few ideas? Too many ideas? Ever just want to scream maniacally when good ideas are unceremoniously flushed down the commode? (Southern for "toilet"). Then you might want to read on. Below, I've compiled a list of real quotes from my co-workers - uttered at various and sundry times during various and sundry meeting marathons. We might be talking about talking engineers, here, but somehow I suspect that meeting migraines are universal - no matter who's attending, and no matter what they're talking about.





Stated 1 hour and 5 minutes into a meeting:
"What should we be doing in this meeting?"




Stated in reference to someone who was on maternity leave:
"You realize we'll be doing these same tasks when she gets back, so we might as well assign her something now."




Stated during one particularly boring meeting:
Boss: "How do we make these meetings more fun?"
Engineer: "Large quantities of beer would be nice."





An unfortunate slip of the tongue:
Engineer: "We need to avoid the problem of isolating knowledge to one person and then that one person leaves."
Boss: "We've solved that problem on [our project]. No one person knows anything."




Stated during a late-night marathon meeting:
"Nothing I do on this project is not frustrating."





Said during a meeting that 2 groups were supposed to attend:
"The meeting would be more useful if they showed up."





A little diversionary conversation during a long weekend meeting:
Engineer 1: "There's something leaking in the women's bathroom. It sounds like someone's taking a shower."
Engineer 2: "They're probably just trying to keep the rats from getting thirsty."





Said during one meeting where a conflict needed to be resolved:
"If they can't resolve it, I've got ski masks and baseball bats in the car."


...More coming later!

Hurricane Katrina

I hate to be blunt, but after spending days thinking and fretting about hurricane Katrina, one lesson stood out for me above all others: Crap Happens.

But let me start from the beginning.

When I began to hear weather forecasters predicting the devastation that could be wrought by a strengthening hurricane Katrina - straight from a category 1 cat-and-mouse with Florida - I sat up straight and took real notice. As I continued to watch and monitor, the predictions became ever more dire, ever more high pitched...until finally the newscasters were telling Gulf state residents to vacate their homes or risk losing their lives. My heart beat quickly as I watched these reports, and my curiosity of general human nature wondered whether or not these screaming predictions would be taken seriously. After all, how many times in the past had coastal residents listened attentively to frenzied forecasters as they predicted "ground zero's" location - triggering disaster-happy news outlets to send their breathless reporters fanning out like spokes from the site of expected landfall? How many hours had been spent fighting the Fellow Man for supplies, boarding windows, and sitting in interminable evacuation lines - only to find later that Hurricane Big'un had fizzled to a tropical storm before reaching shore? Or worse, that Hurricane Bullseye had remained furiously alive - only to hit the little town of Unprepared located miles away from "ground zero"? Let's face it...human nature is human nature, and crying wolf is crying wolf. Sooner or later, too many unfulfilled armageddons are going to cause more than one person to succumb to alarm fatigue. And so was the case, here. I watched intently as newscasters interviewed Gulf residents - many of whom were making calculated decisions not to leave, and others who had no means of leaving. Neither category of person seemed overly alarmed, and some referred to storms past that had often proved much less spectacular than predicted. Despite my complete understanding of the cavalier attitude, I must admit that the second category of people intrigued me: If push really did come to shove, how was it possible not to be able to leave?

As the storm's intensity continued to grow and the forecasts became more shrill, my own skepticism of the predictions began to give way to slight belief in their veracity. Slowly, reality began to seep in and I began to wonder what I would do in the shoes of those people who claimed that they had no means to leave. Accordingly, I started mulling over options while talking with friends and family: If I had no car and no money, how would I get myself out of town? Well, I most likely still had two feet. I would walk. If I thought the situation desperate enough, I would start out early and walk for two days if I had to. Ok, well and good...but then I added more difficulty to my scenario: What if I had small children? Or what if I had elderly relatives who could not walk to safety? I couldn't just leave them...so what would I do then? And slowly I began to see and understand that - if the storm did indeed hit a large city like New Orleans - the chances were very real that not everyone would be able to evacuate prior to lights-out. I remember being floored by that realization, because I had never before even considered the possibility that a person under evacuation orders would not be able to evacuate. Still, though, the stubborn geek within me refused to completely swallow the completely helpless theme. To this day, I believe deep within that a determined individual would find a way - like the young teenage boy who commandeered a bus and drove his family and neighbors out of harm's way. Where there's a will...

Finally, after all of the predictions and hours of pre-landfall coverage, Katrina slammed into New Orleans at estimated category 4 force. I remember initially thinking to myself that this was one of the few cases I could remember wherein a hurricane had actually landed so close to where the newscasters had said it would. I watched as the obligatory lunatic reporters covered the storm from the areas where it was most vicious. Ruefully, I found myself wondering how each reporteratti member considered his/her staked-out position along the storm track: If the positioning resulted in only a slight de-moussing of perfect hair, was the job considered a failure? If the positioning resulted in a newscaster screaming into a microphone while clinging to a stationary pole - legs flapping in the breeze - was the job considered a success? Was there hazard pay? Whatever the case, I watched the coverage far more than I should have - given my rueful musings. I watched as the reporters dodged flying objects ripped from foundations, as weathermen and weatherwomen predicted the storm's track with breathless gravity, as news anchors monitored the levies - waiting to pounce firmly on the first evidence of a breach. I watched until the wee hours of the morning...and by the time I went to bed that night, every 'caster and commentator was convinced that we had dodged a bullet. Every news outlet was sighing relief that Katrina had not been as bad as predicted. In fact, as it so happened, I did read much later that the storm had actually made landfall as a category 3 storm. Quite literally, then, Katrina was not as bad as initially suspected.

But then came the aftermath. The first time I realized that something was dreadfully wrong post- storm was on the Tuesday after landfall. On that day, news outlets began to discover that - as many had predicted and more had feared - the levies in New Orleans had not held. The city was flooded in many areas, and reporters were just starting to realize the scope of the disaster. As I watched the coverage, I began to fathom that things were bad, but the sheer magnitude of just how bad was only made clear when I started to watch new footage of those who had been trapped in the aftermath. As far as the eye could see, tired, bleary-eyed people were wandering the streets - clutching what few possessions they had as they walked with closely-held family members towards...what were they walking towards? I gasped inwardly as I heard the people pleading for assistance. "Help us!" one said. "Someone please tell us where to go," said another. "We just need to know where to go." I was horrified...but perhaps not for the reason that one might suspect: The first plea I could understand perfectly. "Help us!" makes alot of sense when you're trapped on a roof mere feet from rising flood waters, or when you are cracking with thirst as an incredibly hot wind tortures your skin. What I couldn't understand was the "tell us where to go" part of the plea. Looking back, I think that my lack of understanding was due mostly to the fierce independent streak that I tend to nurture. That characteristic within me would allow me to understand initial shell-shock, loss, and bewilderment, but it would not allow me to accept complete and utter helplessness. Where do I go? I don't stay in the reeking city. I walk out of it - if need be - or die trying. If I have family that cannot go with me, I am no longer constrained as I might have been before the storm. If I leave now, it will not be to flee the storm's wrath and save my life...it will be to launch a desperate attempt to get help for those that I love. I mean, how many old TV shows have we seen where Lassie leaves Timmy in the well to run for help, or little Gertrude leaves Pa gunshot in the gully to clamor out of the forest and look for the search posse?

Looking back at my emotions while watching the coverage, I will never forget that absolute sense of bewilderment. 20-20 hindsight, though, has helped me to understand the predicament a little better: How hardy can one be after surviving a hurricane-kicking for the last 24 hours? No food. No water. No strength. No clothes but those on one's back. And probably no money, either. Obviously, it's easy to find fault from the comfort of an easy chair. Still, though, that staunch geek within won't let me allow others to accept defeat so easily. If one has no strength to save one's self or one's family...then one perishes in the effort. But at least there was the effort.

As I continued to watch the coverage, I also began to feel myself becoming angry. That sense first dawned on me when I saw people milling around on a bridge to absolutely nowhere - afraid to go to the Superdome (who could blame them?) but not proceeding out of the city itself. At the point of watching this, I began to ask myself: Where are the trucks with ice? Where is the food? Where is the water? As I had tried to temper my initial bewilderment over the victims' reactions, so I tried now to temper my bewilderment over the government response. "Remember," I told myself, "the city is flooded. It's easy to say 'where are the trucks with ice?' but how does one roll them in when the ground underneath is quicksand?" As before, I still clung to my "where there's a will..." repetitive, and as before, I still think to this day that there had to be a way. Still, though, I did attempt to temper my incredulity, and I did meet with some success.

As one day led to another with no apparent relief for victims, I finally had cause to stand up and cheer when troops at last arrived and supplies finally began to make their way to those who so desperately needed them. I leapt inwardly as I saw a line of huge vehicles roll in - one after the other - and felt cooled within as I saw thankful residents receiving their first bags of ice or bottles of water. Hope continued as huge buses arrived to evacuate the Superdome, and aid from across the country began to poor in. This was the America that I knew, and I was thankful that it had not abandoned its countrymen in their time of need. True...my critical eyes had seen fault on both sides - in the initial ineptitude of the government response at all levels, and in the complete and utter dependence of so many of the survivors. But my spirit soared when I saw wrongs righted, mistakes corrected, and the grand heart of the citizens of this country as it burst and overflowed.

As time went on and the streets of New Orleans dried out, it wasn't long before the nation was battening the hatches for yet another storm - hurricane Rita. As I watched coverage in deja vu, I thought about the lingering lessons that I had learned from so vicious a teacher as Katrina: First and foremost, Americans have an overwhelming capacity for compassion, and they are so blessed with giving hearts. But ever so secondly, a new dark and sinister realization reached out and tapped me on the shoulder with a cold touch of reality: Crap happens. As Americans, we somehow seem to arrogantly assume that we are immune to the wrath of nature. If a catastrophe occurs, We are America, and that isn't supposed to happen, here. And if perchance it does happen, we (myself included) expect immediate relief and assistance - unlike just about everyone else in the world. The supply convoys must suddenly appear. Aid must fall like manna from the sky. And if it doesn't - despite the presence of hell and high water - someone must be to blame. But make no mistake: When there is a drought, we will go thirsty. When there is a famine, we will go hungry. When there is a hurricane, no amount of squalling or finger-pointing will stay its fury and damage. In the end, we are only human, and we are all fallible. And if we are such as individuals, how much more so are we in the collective? In a crisis, one can never completely depend on the fallible collective that is the government. In those times, one can only expect to depend on a minimum of two things: First on God. And then on oneself.

So what about you? Where were you when Hurricane Katrina struck? Were you in the eye of the storm, or watching its fury 1000 miles away? What lessons did you take away from it, if any?

Send us your thoughts. We'll keep you posted.