The Garage is Burning

 The Garage is Burning 

                                           arsonist kid  

     It is time to uncover the dark secret of the family fire back in 1955.  It was an important year with my First Holy Communion, the Montgomery Bus Boycotts and the Dodgers winning the World Series for the first time ever. It was also a time of shame and prevarication for me since I pulled off one of the worst family disasters in our childhood. At this time we lived at  9400 Annetta avenue and all four kids were in place and on their way toward the abundant life of post-war America. As was the case much of the time I liked to spend some of my free time playing by myself and had in my possession a dozen rolls of caps for a toy gun. There was no toy gun available but I remembered that the coffee can of turpentine in the garage was flammable and a hammer was handy in Grandpa Creason's old tool chest. I decided to entertain myself by creating mini-expolosions. So, as big brother and sister sat in front of the TV I started soaking caps rolls with turpentine and hitting them with a hammer, thus producing a small ball of flames at the time of concussion. It was great fun until a loose spark flew into the turpentine can and initiated a large plume of  flames crawling up the wood frame of the old garage. One of the cars my Mom drove (a Ford) was in the garage with some other family heirlooms so I knew I was in deep trouble. Instead of fessing up I just ran back to the house and sat down with my siblings until the smell of smoke alerted my Mom that something was amiss. An alarm went out and she grabbed the phone which was a party line at that time, dismissed the conversation and got the nearby Fire Department on the line and on their way to our burning garage. At this point there were big flames leaping into the sky and there was a real danger to our next door neighbor and our own precious home. The LAFD arrived quickly but it was too late as the entire building was gutted down to the foundation. My Mom's car was scorched and her hope chest was badly damaged. Among the family heirlooms lost were a hnad-made nativity scene made by my Uncle Hank and some memorabilia from my great-great grandfather's participation in the Civil War as a member of the Confederate Army.  Stephen became a hero as he raced past the flaming building and rescued our dachsunds Hansel and Gretel who were in a dog run at the back of the property. An arson inspector showed up soon and questioned me closely asking if I was playing with matches. Since I was preparing for First Holy Communion I was about as God-fearing as I could ever be in this life. However, technically I was NOT playing with matches but playing with exploding-flaming caps so I could look the captain in the eye and say "no sir" and was excluded from the suspect list. Of course, BC turned the disater into triumph by massaging the insurance claims about the home and car. Literally, before the smoke had cleared we had a car port connected to a deluxe rumpus room and a very rare  kidney shaped swimming pool where there was once crab-grass and dirt. Only Stephen knew the truth but he held firm with my secret unitl about 1980-something when he let Ben and Charline know their youngest son was an arsonist. My Mom refused to believe it and insisted on the official cause of a short in the automobile. Even  twenty-five years after the crime BC shouted at Stephen to never let the truth be known in case the insurance guys would ask for their few thousand bucks back.