Each year we prune, we weed and drag the clippings down the back to the old dam. When it rains a small creek runs from the fence to the back paddocks. A perfect place to site our annual burn pile. Stephen suggests that I am a pyromaniac but my perspective is that when one is cleaning up and making the yard fire safe then every effort should be made to do the job thoroughly. So with that in mind I endeavour to locate all fallen sticks, branches and I think that you get the picture. This year we have an old wattle tree that is on its last legs so I decided to assist its removal and relocation to the afore mentioned burn pile. Just to set the scene you should be advised that the old wattle tree has wrapped some of its upper branches around the three phase electrical cable that delivers electricity to our home. Careful, careful, careful. I nudged, rocked and clipped the parts that I could before accepting that the tree's main trunk had defeated me this year. It was stubborn to the last. It's rotten throughout and I've sawn though the trunk but it holds its own. I make my way down to the burn pile with the finer branches. Fire seems low. What happened to the big pile? Where is Stephen? Ah, there he is. He is hosing the fence line. I can see it now. Trees smouldering, flames leaping along the reed bed of the creek. The grass is blackened above the burn pile and up to the fence. What happened? Funny how one asks the obvious at such times. At work I chair the OH&S Committee (hope that they don't find out about this little event.) I always stand with Stephen when he starts the burn. The first time ever and this is what happens. The hose does not reach the big gum that smoulders. What a stench. Smoke rises from its trunk. I locate buckets and patiently fill them in turn and proceed to drench the acrid bark. Finally, the pile is reduced to ashes and life goes on for another year.
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