Instead of his cheery voice, I was greeted with news that knocked the wind from me: our machine shed was struck by lightning and was burning.
What I can describe now in a very concise timeline, actually unfolded in a maze of facts, misstatements, confusion and assumptions over the subsequent 8-hour span.
A horrible, fast-moving storm sped over our area, and lightning struck a transformer on our property at about 1:45 pm. A fireball was propelled from the transformer down the power lines and into the shed. It immediately lit on fire, and was consumed within a matter of minutes. A wonderful neighbor passing by saw the fire and called 911, after bravely moving our farm truck which was parked just outside the shed. I am not certain I would have been so brave. (And say what you will, but I am thankful that we leave the keys in that truck!)
The fire department was there within 8 minutes, but the fire was so hot and intense that the roof had already fallen in, and the building was a total loss. The flames were 20-30 feet high, and came within 5 feet of our propane tank. Treetops were scorched, some trees were even burnt. Plastic trim on our house was melted as was our picnic table. The fire department fought it for a couple of hours, leaving when they felt that it would burn itself out. The rain was torrential, so I can only imagine what could have happened had it not been raining so hard.
At 4 pm the kids got home from school, but B was not yet home. In the few minutes between those two times, L saw the shed on fire and immediately burst into tears. He frantically went to the pump to get water, only to find that it was not working (the electric company had cut the power lines to the other buildings on the property, including the well pump). In his distress, he ran into the house to get a mixing bowl, futilly filling it with water and dumping it on the inferno. I can only imagine that scene, but it plays over and over in my head. My heart breaks every time I think of it.
As it was, B had to call the firefighters back about 7 pm as the flames became more intense. The crew arrived within minutes with two tanker trucks, and worked in the rain until late in the evening. They were still there when I called for a 10:30 pm update.
I was able to have replacements come to work my meeting so that I could come back home to be with my family and assess the damage. We lost so much that we have worked to build up over the last three years here. B and I moved to this farm with a push mower and four screwdrivers, and maybe a hammer, and we thought we could be farmers. We have collected equipment and tools specifically for the needs we have on our operation. I remember how little we knew and how little we had when we first started on this venture together. It feels like we had climbed halfway up the mountain and have fallen back down to the bottom.
We lost all of the chickens and all of the hay we put up for the year. Hay went for upwards of $10 a square bale last year, and we paid our hay guy 70 cents per bale to cut and bale it for us (of course, we did the stacking and putting it up). But we will never find it for that cheap.
Losing the chickens is devastating, too. Thinking of them suffering is hard to stomach.
The worst part about the fire is the sense of security that is lost. Your home is where you go to escape from these things—ours especially is tranquil and peaceful and AWAY from the cares of the world. While are are not naïve enough to think that it doesn’t happen here, I suppose we do operate in a manner that can’t fathom that sort of thing happening. Our home was broken into when I was a teenager, and it is the same sort of feeling.
At the same time we are feeling blessed—we have incredible neighbors, adequate insurance, and a shitload of tenacity. We will do it again, and better, faster and cheaper this time.
For now we are sad. We don’t even have a shovel to scoop up the trashbin that melted into a puddle.
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