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Authors: Jennifer Zane
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ignition, a spark. I think we’re safer with our propane tank than on the city’s natural gas lines.” Mr. Huffman humphed and settled into his lawn chair, arms folded across his ample belly.
I actually couldn’t blame Mrs. Huffman her worries, or Mr. Huffman and his grievance with public works. The whole town had been on edge about gas explosions since 2009 when one morning, a block of
Main Street
blew up. No warnings, just boom. Sadly, a woman was killed and an entire city block blown to smithereens when, by accounts, she’d done nothing more than flip a light switch. The gas lines that ran to the downtown buildings were ancient, 1930’s old. And cracked. Gas had seeped into the ground and up into the building. I’d been just down the street at the time taking Bobby to preschool when it happened. I had been a bit too close for comfort on Main that morning, and now once again.
I never really thought about how I got my furnace to work before the downtown explosion and realized I took quite a bit for granted. I lived in the city linked up to the public gas lines where, by all accounts, I shouldn’t be concerned. As my house was built in the fifties, my gas lines couldn’t be more than fifty-some years old. No problems. Or so I made myself believe.
Out here, the garage sale house—the entire neighborhood—used propane. Propane heat and stove and water heater. There weren’t any old underground pipes, just a separate tank behind each house. So, what caused this explosion?
A county sheriff patrol car and one fire truck remained. It, of course, was from the volunteer fire department that hosted the lovely pancake breakfast the weekend before. Outside of city boundaries, the home was serviced by the volunteers, not the paid city fire department.
Once they remembered me from Zach’s horn incident, they quickly looked me over and I was deemed unharmed by the paramedics, then kindly removed to the Huffman’s yard. Across the street. Ample distance away from the fire truck and its horn. Obviously they didn’t want a repeat performance from a member of the West family. As if.
Ty remained with them, recapping what had happened. As he wasn’t a member of the department and the city hadn’t been called in for support, he only acted as witness to the incident. The sheriff took notes while the firemen poked with their tools through the rubble to make sure there were no hot spots. Often Ty would point to different parts of what remained of the house or his maimed truck. I was either too far away to hear what he said or my ears hadn’t recovered full function yet. On occasion he pointed at me and they all had a good chuckle. Who knew what they were talking about, but I could only guess. They seemed to be enjoying themselves at my expense. I grumbled from my spectator seat as I imagined their words.
“Do you know the people who live in that house?” I asked. Mrs. Huffman took my coffee cup and refilled it from a Thermos.
“Cookie, dear?” she asked, holding out a plate.
Of course I took one. You never turned down a cookie from an old lady. And I was in shock. Sugar was good for shock. I contemplated adopting her as my grandma as I sipped my coffee.
“The Moore’s live there. Alma and Ted.”
I had a terrible thought and tried to swallow the bit of homemade chocolate chip cookie past the lump in my throat. “You don’t think they were home, do you?”
Firefighters had been in and out of the house. If they’d discovered someone—dead or alive—they’d have been brought out by now. Hopefully.
“They moved to Arizona last fall. Had enough of the winters. Ted retired last year from the post office, Alma the year before,” Mr. Huffman told me. He too, ate a cookie. A few crumbs landed on his tummy that jiggled like a bowlful of jelly.
“Alma was a school teacher. High school English,” added Mrs. Huffman, taking a sip of coffee.
“Then who lives there? I came to a garage sale over the weekend, so
I actually couldn’t blame Mrs. Huffman her worries, or Mr. Huffman and his grievance with public works. The whole town had been on edge about gas explosions since 2009 when one morning, a block of
Main Street
blew up. No warnings, just boom. Sadly, a woman was killed and an entire city block blown to smithereens when, by accounts, she’d done nothing more than flip a light switch. The gas lines that ran to the downtown buildings were ancient, 1930’s old. And cracked. Gas had seeped into the ground and up into the building. I’d been just down the street at the time taking Bobby to preschool when it happened. I had been a bit too close for comfort on Main that morning, and now once again.
I never really thought about how I got my furnace to work before the downtown explosion and realized I took quite a bit for granted. I lived in the city linked up to the public gas lines where, by all accounts, I shouldn’t be concerned. As my house was built in the fifties, my gas lines couldn’t be more than fifty-some years old. No problems. Or so I made myself believe.
Out here, the garage sale house—the entire neighborhood—used propane. Propane heat and stove and water heater. There weren’t any old underground pipes, just a separate tank behind each house. So, what caused this explosion?
A county sheriff patrol car and one fire truck remained. It, of course, was from the volunteer fire department that hosted the lovely pancake breakfast the weekend before. Outside of city boundaries, the home was serviced by the volunteers, not the paid city fire department.
Once they remembered me from Zach’s horn incident, they quickly looked me over and I was deemed unharmed by the paramedics, then kindly removed to the Huffman’s yard. Across the street. Ample distance away from the fire truck and its horn. Obviously they didn’t want a repeat performance from a member of the West family. As if.
Ty remained with them, recapping what had happened. As he wasn’t a member of the department and the city hadn’t been called in for support, he only acted as witness to the incident. The sheriff took notes while the firemen poked with their tools through the rubble to make sure there were no hot spots. Often Ty would point to different parts of what remained of the house or his maimed truck. I was either too far away to hear what he said or my ears hadn’t recovered full function yet. On occasion he pointed at me and they all had a good chuckle. Who knew what they were talking about, but I could only guess. They seemed to be enjoying themselves at my expense. I grumbled from my spectator seat as I imagined their words.
“Do you know the people who live in that house?” I asked. Mrs. Huffman took my coffee cup and refilled it from a Thermos.
“Cookie, dear?” she asked, holding out a plate.
Of course I took one. You never turned down a cookie from an old lady. And I was in shock. Sugar was good for shock. I contemplated adopting her as my grandma as I sipped my coffee.
“The Moore’s live there. Alma and Ted.”
I had a terrible thought and tried to swallow the bit of homemade chocolate chip cookie past the lump in my throat. “You don’t think they were home, do you?”
Firefighters had been in and out of the house. If they’d discovered someone—dead or alive—they’d have been brought out by now. Hopefully.
“They moved to Arizona last fall. Had enough of the winters. Ted retired last year from the post office, Alma the year before,” Mr. Huffman told me. He too, ate a cookie. A few crumbs landed on his tummy that jiggled like a bowlful of jelly.
“Alma was a school teacher. High school English,” added Mrs. Huffman, taking a sip of coffee.
“Then who lives there? I came to a garage sale over the weekend, so
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