I can still smell the thick, pungent air when I step outside. It should have been gone long ago; it’s been a week, and it doesn’t smell any more pleasant. There’s trash on the lawn, there’s no roof on the studio, the garage has the smell trapped inside, and the posts on the back fence are charcoal, at least on the surface. And yes, all the trash on the lawn is there for a purpose. We’re waiting for some place to put it all.
    Last week I heard a noise while I was on my computer (it was a loud hum), and apparently the dog heard it too, and thought much of it. The noise was soon replaced by much barking, and then the sounds died down to nothing noteworthy. I decided to take a look out the front window to see what went on. Because of the angle the window allowed me, I could only see two white trucks parked on the street, which was a little out of place because they were in front of the house, but not strange because there are always white trucks parked on the side of the street. The farmers are consistently checking on their produce, moving irrigation hoses, and having farmers’ conversations on the side of the road. So I thought nothing of it.
    I went back to the computer, still thinking nothing of it. Not too much longer the phone rang, and I answered. A woman’s voice asked if there was anything wrong.
    “I don’t think so,” I said.
    “Well, I saw fire engines, and every time I see fire engines, I always think something’s going on with your grandparents,” she said. Apparently she thought I was in the next generation up. They were my great-grandparents, living next door.
    “I don’t think there’s anything wrong, but I’ll go check anyway.”
    I got ready for work, because I was headed that way anyhow, at my own leisure (which is how my part-time job is set up). I locked up the house and went next door to see what was happening. As I turned the corner around the carport where my car was parked, my stomach sank. There, on the front lawn and in the driveway, were two fire engines and various other trucks.
    Something’s wrong with Grandad, I thought. But then I saw him riding around on his electronic scooter, so I thought, Something’s wrong with Granny, until I saw that he wasn’t upset at anything. As I walked closer and closer I got more and more puzzled. If the fire engines were going to be out there for any reason, it was going to be some sort of problem with my great-grandparents…
    …or a fire, which I saw being put out as soon as I rounded the corner of their house. It was the studio, where Granny used to paint, and now it had no roof. There were seven or eight firefighters milling around, pulling art frames and a couch out of the studio.
    Granny had been burning paper trash, as she usually does, back by the corn field, when a breeze kicked up and brought a cinder to the studio’s roof. A neighbor farmer out in the fields saw the blaze (it must have been big because the fence was burned behind it, three or four feet away at least), and called the authorities; it wasn’t clear whether or not Granny or Grandad noticed anything was wrong.
    By the time I got near it, the whole structure was soaking wet, dripping black water and seething the mighty stench of burning civilization. Two and a half walls were still intact, along with the floor, but this was hardly a building anymore; though maybe it might be a good location for a photo shoot, as long as it’s before we tear it down all the way.
    I watched as a firefighter gingerly put down two frames in front of me, and recognized them as having been up on my wall just a month before in my Newhall apartment. I had stored them in the studio for a time, and now they’re on the lawn, exposed to the elements except for the parts covered in smeared ash.
    I watched another of the firefighters, with his mustache of some ancient fortitude, trimmed to regulations. His face was sooty, his shirt was sweaty, and his hat was just like in the movies. I don’t see firefighters in their get-up often. I listened in to some of the conversation they were having.
    “So I said, what street? I have no idea where that is!” I heard one say, presumably about finding this country address. He went on walking, talking and laughing with a fellow about this potentially dangerous situation.
    I guess firefighters have their own brand of gallows-humor. When you’re in a situation as serious as a house-fire, too much serious thinking will probably do more harm than good. Here was this young fireman, chatting it up with his coworker, laughing about something that would have given me knots in my back for a week or two.
    I watched, because watching was the only thing I could have done, another firefighter tearing down the south wall with a pickaxe. I got some information from my second-uncle Les (I think he’s my second uncle, anyhow; I’m never sure with all these family titles, especially with all these relatives around). He had been there for a while, and he told me how it happened. Then I left for work.
    Later that day I walked around the site and called my parents to tell them what happened. I had to walk around the couch, the easels, the frames, the boxes of books, and a table to get inside the burned-out building. The floor was sturdy except for one section on the west side. The smell was unbearable, even through my shirt, which was pulled up over my nose. I couldn’t stay there long, so I left.             
***
    A few days ago, I heard some noises again, and heard the dog barking that special bark that says, “Something is wrong” rather than announcing the presence of a squirrel or an intriguing lizard. I also heard a shout. I’d better investigate this time, I thought.
    I went through the back gate this time, and I heard the shout again, but I couldn’t make out what was being said. It was Granny, though. I knew that much. I turned a corner and saw both Granny and Grandad huddled over the scooter. Grandad had lodged it in the flowerbed. He was in his socks, trying to pull the scooter out with no luck.
    I pulled it out. It was lighter than I thought it was, and I almost pulled it over Grandad’s feet on the way back out of the flowerbed.
    Granny and Grandad thanked me, and then Granny said, implying a reason for the accident, “This is the first time he realized there was all this trash in the yard!”